THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

Presented  ■by- 

Mrs.  G.  1-  Simpson 
1934 

SI  5 
H  |6w 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME 


i 


By  MARY  GRACE  HALFINE. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by  Bor¬ 
man  L.  Munro ,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of 
Congress ,  at  Washington,  B,  C. 


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A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


By  MARY  GRACE  HALFINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  MEETING  BY  THE  RIVER. 

It  was  a  wild,  lonely,  romantic  scene  upon  the  Highlands, 
to  which  the  shades  of  evening  gave  a  gloomy,  almost  des¬ 
olate  look. 

Down  its  steep,  precipitous  banks,  the  beautiful  Hudson 
moved  over  its  rocky  bed,  its  soft  murmur  the  only  sound 
that  broke  the  solemn  stillness. 

(suddenly  a  woman  stole  swiftly  down  a  steep,  narrow 
path  which  wound  in  and  around  the  rocks  and  hills  that 
arose  to  a  great  height  in  the  background. 

As,  pausing,  she  glanced  around  with  a  timid,  startled 
air,  a  man  sprung  from  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  tree  in 
front  of  her. 

‘‘Oh!  Geraldine,  darling!  how  good,  how  very  good  you 
are  not  to  disappoint  me.  I  was  beginning  to  fear  that  you 
were  not  coming.” 

For  a  few  moments  Geraldine  lay  unresistingly  in  the 
passionate  embrace  to  which  she  was  folded.  Then  releas¬ 
ing  herself,  with  a  shudder,  she  stood  up. 

The  moon,  which  now  broke  from  beneath  a  cloud,  re¬ 
vealed  the  pale,  beautiful  face,  and  the  midnight  glory  of 
the  eyes  that  were  turned  mournfully  upon  the  face  of  her 
companion.  \ 

“  No,  no!  Antonio,  do  not  call  me  that.  I  aiti  a  bad  wife, 
a  bad  mother.  But  not  irredeemably  so — for  I  have  come 
to  bid  you  farewell  forever.” 

“Geraldine!” 

“Yes,  forever.  Listen  to  me,  Antonio.  When  I  first 
learned  of  the  cruel  deception  that  had  been  practiced 
upon  me,  upon  us  both,  and  which  induced  me  to  marry 
another,  I  went  almost  wild,  and  my  indifference  V  >  my 
husband  changed  to  loathing  and  almost  hate.  And  when 
you  wrote  me  entreating  that  I  would  give  you  one  in- 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


Si 

terview,  I  felt  that  I  must  see  you,  if  only  to  tell  you  how 
innocent  I  was  of  wronging  you.  If  it  had  only  stopped 
there.  But  this  is  the  third  time  we  have  met,  and  it 
must  be  the  last.  ” 

“Geraldine,  only  listen  to  me,  darling.  The  man  you 
call  husband  not  only  knew  but  connived  at  this  plot 
against  our  peace.  It  is  he  that  is  the  interloper,  not  1 ;  it 
is  he  that  is  wronging  me,  not  I  him.  Have  you  forgotten 
the  solemn  vows  you  pledged  me,  and  which  made  those 
you  took  at  the  altar  a  mockery  and  a  lie?” 

“  But  there  is  one  thing  that  is  neither  a  mockery  nor  a 
lie,  Antonio.  I  am  a  mother.  He  who  holds  the  place 
that  should  have  been  yours  is  the  father  of  my  children.” 

The  simple  dignity  of  these  words,  the  pure,  sweet  look 
in  the  lifted  eyes,  evidently  had  an  effect  upon  the  man  to 
whom  they  were  spoken.  Then  a  jealous  pang  pierced  his 
heart. 

“  Is  my  happiness  nothing  to  you?  Do  you  love  them 
better  than  me?” 

“I  should  be  unworthy  of  yours,  or  any  honest  man’s 
love,  were  I  unmindful  of  my  duty  to  those  who  have  so 
sacred  a  claim  upon  me,  as,  in  your  better  moments,  you 
would  own.  To  do  as  you  propose,  would  not  make  you 
happy.  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  You 
are  not  your  right  self  now,  no  more  than  I  have  been  mine. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  aroused  me  from  my  wild  dream  of 
madness  and  despair?  It  was  such  a  simple  thing,  and  yet 
so  strong  and  resistless — the  touch  of  my  baby’s  dimpled 
hand  upon  my  cheek,  as  I  bent  over  the  cradle  where  she 
lay.  As  I  looked  upon  its  innocent  face,  and  thought  that 
it  might  live  to  blush  for  the  mother  that  bore  her,  I  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  the  fearful  precipice  upon  which  my  feet 
were  standing.  Saw  it  not  too  late,  thank  God !  It  was 
wrong  in  me  to  meet  you  here,  as  I  have  done,  wrong  in 
me  to  listen  to  your  professions  of  love,  and  the  still 
stronger  pleadings  of  my  own  heart.  But  there  has  been 
no  actual  guilt  as  yet,  and  there  must  be  none.  Do  you 
love  me,  Antonio?” 

“  Do  I  love  you,  Geraldine?  No  man  ever  gave  to  woman 
a  love  more  true  and  tender.” 

‘  ‘  Then  do  not  urge  me  to  a  course  that  can  only  result 
in  wretchedness  to  me,  to  you,  and  to  my  innocent  children. 
Help  me  to  be  strong.  We,  that  are  forbidden  to  love  on 
earth,  can  look  forward  to  meeting  in  a  better  country, 
where  we  can  love  unblamed.” 

Antonio  was  silent  for  some  moments,  evidently  a  heavy 
struggle  going  on  in  his  heart. 

“  Geraldine,  as  strong  and  passionate  as  my  love  is  for 
you,  it  is  not  so  selfish  as  you  think.  It  is  for  your  sake, 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


n 


more  than  mine,  that  I  wanted  to  take  you  away  with  me, 

I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  you  in  yonder  gloomy 
prison-house,  not  only  cut  off  from  all  society,  but  all  aid 
and  protection,  and  left  to  the  mercy  of  a  brutal  tyrant, 
for  disguise  it  as  you  may,  your  husband  is  nothing  less. 
Nor  are  your  brothers  much  better.” 

“They  are  worse,”  responded  Geraldine,  with  a  shudder. 
“I  would  sooner  trust  to  my  husband’s  mercy  than  to 
theirs.  In  one  thing  you  wrong  Mr.  Bayard.  I  am  con¬ 
vinced  that  my  brothers  never  told  him  the  true  story  of 
our  betrothal,  and  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  de¬ 
ception  practiced  upon  us  both.  He  must  have  known  that 
I  had  no  love  for  him,  however,  and  that  I  was  frightened 
and  threatened  into  marrying  him.  But  though  this 
knowledge  did  not  deter  him  from  carrying  out  his  de¬ 
termination  to  make  me  his  wife,  it  made  him  harsh  and 
distrustful  of  me  almost  from  the  first.  He  broke  open 
my  desk  one  day,  finding  some  of  your  letters  there.  Since 
this  he  has  been  almost  insanely  jealous.  I  tremble  when 
I  think  what  the  result  might  be  if  he  should  know  of  our 
meetings.  You  must  not  come  here  again.” 

“  Do  you  stay  in  this  lonely  place,  Geraldine,  all  the  year 
around,  summer  and  winter?” 

“  Except  once,  when  I  visited  my  brother  Petro’s  place, 
Wolf’s  Crag,  and  which  is  still  more  lonely  and  difficult  of 
access,  I  have  not  left  Hunter’s  Lodge  for  over  two  years. 
My  husband  is  sometimes  away  months  at  a  time.  But  I 
never  know  when  to  expect  him  back,  as  he  always  appears 
suddenly  and  without  warning.” 

“My  poor,  dear  love!  what  a  hard,  lonely  life  yours 
must  be !” 

“  I  do  not  mind  that  part  of  it.  Since  our  cruel  separa¬ 
tion  all  places  are  alike  to  me.  Do  not  fear  for  me,  An¬ 
tonio  ;  the  saddest  life  will  end  some  time,  and  while  my 
children  are  left  me  I  cannot  be  utterly  wretched.  Should 
I  lose  them  I  think  I  should  go  wild.” 

A  few  more  whispered  words,  a  parting  embrace,  more 
tender  because  it  was  to  be  for  all  time,  and  the  two  sep¬ 
arated. 

With  the  same  swift,  noiseless  step,  Geraldine  retraced 
her  way  to  the  steep,  narrow  path  that  led  to  Hunter’s 
Lodge. 

Built  of  rough  gray  stone,  it  looked  more  gloomy  than 
usual,  standing  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  tall  trees  that 
surrounded  it. 

Avoiding  the  main  entrance,  she  passed  around  to  the 
side  of  it. 

Pausing  beneath  the  shadow  of  some  vines  that  clam¬ 
bered  up  over  a  balcony,  she  glanced  hurriedly  around  her, 


4 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


her  heart  almost  standing  still  with  terror  as  she  fancied 
she  saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  form  beneath  an  enormous 
tree  in  the  rear. 

Convinced,  upon  a  closer  view,  that  it  was  only  a  shadow 
of  the  tree  itself,  she  looked  up  at  the  house,  every  win¬ 
dow  of  which  was  shrouded  in  darkness,  save  the  one  over 
the  balcony  by  which  she  stood,  where  a  faint  light  glim¬ 
mered. 

The  pillars  that  supported  the  balcony  being  built  of 
blocks  of  rough  stone  of  irregular  size,  it  was  not  difficult 
for  Geraldine,  aided  by  the  tough  fibers  of  the  vine  that 
sent  out  its  branches  in  every  direction,  to  reach  the  top, 
and  which  brought  her  on  a  level  with  one  of  the  deep,  low 
windows  of  her  own  room. 

Drawing  the  curtain  across  the  window  through  which 
she  stepped,  Geraldine  let  the  long,  loose  mantle  drop 
from  her  shoulders. 

Taking  a  candle  from  the  mantel,  she  passed  through  the 
half-open  door  into  the  inner  room,  where  a  lovely  boy  of 
two  and  a  sweet  little  baby  girl  were  quietly  sleeping. 

Pausiug  by  the  couch  where  they  lay,  she  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  the  rosy  lips.  Then  returning  to  her  own  chamber, 
her  head  was  soon  lying  upon  the  pillows  of  a  low  couch  in 
one  corner  of  it. 

Wearied  by  her  long  walk  and  the  excitement  through 
which  she  had  passed,  she  soon  sank  into  a  deep  slumber. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  slept,  but  it  must 
have  been  several  hours,  when  she  was  aroused  by  a  heavy 
hand  upon  her  wrist. 

Opening  her  eyes,  she  shrieked  with  terror  as  they  fell 
upon  the  man  beside  her  bed  and  who  was  holding  up  a 
lantern,  the  light  of  which  shone  full  upon  herface. 

A  moment  later,  recognizing  that  pale,  stern  face,  she 
faltered : 

“  Is  it  you,  Robert?  I — I — how  you  frightened  me.”, 

A  bitter  smile  curled  the  thin  lip. 

“Yes,  it  U  I — your  husband — returned  unexpectedly,  to 
find  how  his  wife  has  been  amusing  herself  in  his  absence.” 

A  nameless  terror  seized  Geraldine  as  she  looked  into 
those  gleaming  eyes,  and  she  made  a  furtive  attempt  to 
free  herself  from  the  iron  grasp  which  closed  around  the 
delicate  wrist  still  more  tightly. 

In  the  same  tone  of  suppressed  fury,  Mr.  Bayard  con¬ 
tinued  : 

“  I  have  been  standing  here  all  of  ten  minutes,  admiring 
the  sweet,  innocent  look  that  a  wife’s  face  can  wear  who 
has  returned  from  a  midnight  meeting  with  her  lover — with 
his  kiss  still  warm  upon  her  lins.” 

“  Robert - ” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


5 


“Silence,  woman!  nor  make  your  guilt  still  blacker  by 
falsehood.  I  saw  you ,  and  will  you  deny  it  to  my  face?” 

“I  am  not  going  to  deny  it.  I  have  sinned,  but  not  so 
deeply  as  you  think.  Were  it  a  thousand  times  blacker,  it 
would  be  as  white  as  snow  compared  to  the  sin  that  has  been 
committed  against  me.  Ah,  if  I  had  only  had  the  courage 
to  have  spoken  to  you  before,  to  have  implored  your  aid 
and  protection.  But,  from  the  commencement  of  our  ill- 
starred  marriage,  you  have  been  so  harsh  and  stern.” 

“  Ill-starred,  indeed,”  was  the  bitter  response.  “  I  curse 
the  day  that  I  ever  looked  upon  your  false  and  beautiful 
face !” 

Geraldine  shrank  before  that  look,  so  stern  and  accusing, 
and  yet  so  full  of  gloom  and  despair.  Conscience  began  to 
make  itself  heard,  though  so  faintly  as  scarcely  to  be 
audible. 

There  was  a  strange  and  indescribable  sadness  in  Mr. 
Bayard’s  voice,  as  he  continued : 

“  As  God  lives!  man  never  gave  to  woman  a  love  more 
strong  and  tender.  Can  you,  dare  you,  look  upon  the  man 
you  have  so  foully  wronged,  and  assert  that  I  have  always 
been  harsh  and  stern?  Can  you  not  remember  a  time  when 
I  was  very  different  from  what  I  now  am?  I  studied  your 
every  wish,  in  the  vain  hope  of  winning  a  smile,  a  look, 
such  as  you  bestowed  freely  upon  every  chance-comer.  I 
placed  my  heart  beneath  your  feet,  and  you  have  trampled 
upon  it  from  first  to  last,  you  have  bestowed  upon  me  such 
fond  names  as  ‘tyrant’  and  ‘jailer.’  Your  words  have 
come  true,  as  you  will  find.  But  it  is  all  your  work ;  what 
I  now  am,  you  made  me.” 

There  was  a  tremor  to  Geraldine’s  voice,  and  a  beseech¬ 
ing  look  in  her  eyes,  as  she  said : 

“Robert,  my  cruel  brothers  made  me  think  that  the 
man  I  loved  was  dead,  else  I  had  not  married  you.  It  is 
only  within  a  year  since  that  I  learned  he  was  living,  as  you 
know.  I  promised  to  be  a  good,  true  wife  to  you.  And  I 
meant,  I  tried - ” 

“And  you  have  the  assurance  to  tell  me  this,  when  I 
witnessed  your  interview  with  your  lover,  down  by  the 
river,  scarcely  four  hours  ago?” 

“As  God  lives,  who  locks  upon  my  heart,  I  went  down 
there  to  bid  him  an  eternal  farewell.” 

A  strange  laugh  burst  from  Bayard’s  lips,  a  laugh  that 
had  in  it  nothing  of  mirth  or  pleasure. 

“  And  so  you  did — though  you  little  meant  that  it  should 
be  so.” 

A  nameless  fear  touched  Geraldine’s  heart. 

“  What  do  you  mean?” 

“No  matter;  be  patient,  you’ll  know  full  soon  enough.” 


6 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


Letting  go  of  the  wrist  lie  had  seized,  and  which  bore  the 
imprint  of  his  fingers  for  days  after,  Bayard  surveyed  his 
wife  for  some  moments  in  gloomy  silence. 

“What  does  that  wife  deserve  who  has  deceived  and 
sinned  against  her  husband,  as  you  have  deceived  and 
sinned  against  me?” 

‘  ‘  In  your  eyes,  death,  I  suppose.  And  I  would  much 
rather  die  than  live,  were  it  not  for  my  children — our  chil¬ 
dren.  Oh,  my  husband,  surely,  oh,  surely,  there  must  be 
some  touch  of  tenderness,  of  pity  in  your  heart,  for  the 
mother  of  your  children !” 

These  words,  and  that  appealing  look  and  tone,  would 
have  touched  most  any  heart,  but  they  seemed  to  add  to 
the  fury  of  the  man  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 

He  raised  his  clinched  hand  as  though  he  would  smite 
her  to  the  floor,  and  then  let  it  fall  heavily  upon  a  table  by 
which  he  stood. 

“  Vilest  of  your  sexl”  he  cried,  hoarsely,  “  how  dare  you 
use  such  language  to  mef  Will  you  add  to  the  deadly 
wrong  y  ou  have  done  me  by  endeavoring  to  foist  the  child 
of  your  paramour  upon  me?  Lionel  is  my  son,  and  I  shall 
act  a  father’s  part  by  him  by  removing  him  forever  from 
your  influence.  As  to  the  other — the  offspring  of  your 
guilty  love— I  utterly  repudiate  and  disown  it,  even  as  I 
repudiate  and  disown  you!” 

Uttering  a  low  cry  of  terror  and  dismay,  the  wretched 
woman  threw  herself  down  at  the  speaker’s  feet. 

“  Hear  me,  Eobert — condemn  me  if  you  will — only  hear 
me!  I  have  erred,  alas!  alas!  and  sorely  have  I  been  pun¬ 
ished.  In  my  brief  fit  of  madness  and  despair,  I  have  given 
you  just  cause  to  reproach  and  distrust  me,  but  this  is  all. 
I  swear  before  Heaven  that  I  am  not  guilty  of  the  crime 
with  which  you  charge  me.  Disown,  repudiate  me,  but 
bring  not  down  upon  my  innocent  baby’s  head  such  a 
blighting  shame  as  this — your  baby.” 

With  an  imprecation  too  horrible  to  repeat,  Bayard 
dragged  Geraldine  up  from  her  knees,  pushing  her  down 
into  a  chair. 

“Infamous  woman!  never  dare  call  that  child  mine 
again.  You  would  swear  that  white  was  black  and  black 
white  to  suit  your  purpose,  take  a  most  solemn  oath  that 
you  hadn’t  met  your  lover  at  all  if  I  had  not  been  eye¬ 
witness  to  your  interview.  Will  you  deny  that  less  than 
a  week  ago  you  agreed  to  fly  with  this  man  to  Italy? 
That  you  not  only  shamelessly  avowed  your  love  for  him, 
but  your  loathing  for  me,  your  husband  ?  It  is  here  in  your 
own  handwriting ;  I  took  it  from  its  resting-place  over  your 
dead  lover’s  heart,  after  if  had  ceased  to  beat.  See !  it  is 
red  with  his  life-blood  1” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


1 

The  light  from  the  lantern  fell  full  upon  the  letter  that 
Bayard  held  up,  revealing  clearly  the  crimson  stains 
upon  it. 

For  some  moments  Geraldine  gazed  bewildered  into 
those  fiercely  exultant  eyes.  Then,  as  the  horrible  import 
of  these  words  dawned  upon  her,  with  a  sharp  and  bitter 
cry,  like  the  wail  of  a  breaking  heart,  she  fell  forward 
upon  her  face. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  HARD  CHOICE. 

When  Geraldine  aroused  from  that  death-like  faint,  she 
found  herself  lying  upon  a  low  bed  in  a  place  so  strange 
and  unfamiliar  that,  at  first,  she  felt  that  she  must  be  un¬ 
der  the  influence  of  some  horrible  dream. 

The  mist  slowly  clearing  from  her  brain,  she  lifted  her 
head,  and  looked  around. 

It  was  evidently  some  place  underground,  or  partially  so. 

The  gray  dawn  was  stealing  through  a  deep,  narrow 
window  near  the  top,  and  which  was  strongly  guarded  by 
iron  bars. 

As  dim  as  this  light  was,  she  soon  became  sufficiently 
accustomed  to  it  to  be  able  to  take  a  survey  of  her  new  and 
strange  quarters. 

The  place  was  square,  or  nearly  so,  built  of  heavy  stones, 
whose  solid  masonry  seemed  to  defy  any  attempt  to  dis¬ 
lodge  them,  looking  like  some  prison-house  or  tomb.  A 
shudder  ran  through  her  veins,  as  she  thought  that  it 
might  be,  to  her,  both. 

Her  mind  slowly  traveled  back  to  the  time  that  she  lost 
consciousness,  when,  holding  up  the  letter,  with  its  blood- 
red  stains,  her  husband  had  spoken  those  terrible  words, 
which  even  now  rang  through  her  brain. 

A  deadly  sickness  came  over  her.  Those  words,  that 
blood-stained  letter,  could  bear  only  one  import — only  one. 

The  man  she  loved,  and  who  loved  her,  as,  in  ail  her  sor¬ 
rowful  life,  no  other  had,  had  been  most  foully  dealt  with 
— and  because  he  loved  her. 

He  had  been  followed,  and  struck  down  by  the  cowardly 
hand  of  an  assassin. 

She  recalled  the  words  he  had  spoken,  that  he  was  the 
wronged,  not  the  wronger,  and  her  heart  acknowledged 
their  truth. 

Oh !  that  the  hate  and  loathing  that  surged  through  every 
vein  would  only  nerve  her  weak  woman’s  hand  to  take 
vengeance  on  bis  murderer! 

As  Geraldine  looked  upon  the  rough  stones  of  her  prison- 
house,  a  strong  impulse  came  over  her  to  dash  her  head 


a 


A  WIFE  '8  CRIME, 


against  them,  and  thus  escape  the  maddening  thoughts* 
whose  accumulated  agony  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

When  her  cruel  tyrant  came,  she  would  defy  him,  telling 
him  to  finish  the  work  he  had  commenced,  by  giving  her 
the  same  fate— all  that  earth  could  give  hen  now — the  hope 
of  rejoining  him. 

Then  came  the  thought  of  her  helpless  children.  How 
could  she  leave  them,  especially  her  baby,  and  to  such  cruel 
hands? 

All  the  mother  in  her  revolted  at  the  bare  suggestion. 

No!  no!  for  their  sakes  she  must  temporize  with  the 
man  who  held  their  fate,  as  well  as  hers,  in  his  hands. 

Rising,  she  groped  around  the  room,  hoping  to  find  some 
loose  stone  or  aperture  in  the  wall,  but  without  avail. 

Though  it  was  a  warm  day  in  the  early  fall,  there  was 
such  a  damp  chilliness  in  the  air  and  on  everything  upon 
which  her  hands  t  ud  feet  rested  that  she  was  glad  to  creep 
back  to  the  rude  straw  bed  that  afforded  her  some  protec¬ 
tion  from  .t. 

Upon  one  of  the  flat  stones  with  which  the  floor  was 
paved  was  a  pitcher  of  water  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Though  she  felt  no  inclination  for  food  or  drink,  she  par¬ 
took  sparingly  of  both,  well  knowing  that  she  would  have 
occasion  for  all  the  strength  and  courage  she  could  com¬ 
mand. 

The  Jetter  that  was  in  her  husband’s  possession  had  been 
written  not  long  after  her  discovery  of  the  means  that  had 
been  used  to  induce  her  to  marry  him,  and  when  she  had 
been  nearly  beside  herself  with  grief  and  indignation. 
And,  as  she  recalled  some  allusions  in  it  to  her  husband, 
her  knowledge  of  his  character  and  disposition,  she  felt 
that  it  was  something  that  he  would  neither  forget  nor  for¬ 
give. 

Occupied  by  these  and  other  quite  as  gloomy  fears  and 
conjectures,  the  long  hours  dragged  their  slow  length  along, 
and  the  light  began  to  vanish  from  the  narrow  grated  win¬ 
dow,  adding  darkness  to  the  gloom  of  her  dreary  sur¬ 
roundings. 

Thus  far  not  a  sound  had  broken  the  oppressive  stillness, 
and  she  well  knew  that  any  outcry  she  might  make  would 
be  unheeded  if  heard. 

The  unhappy  wife  had  long  known  that  the  few  servants 
at  Hunter's  Lodge  were  creatures  of  her  husband,  em- 


to  watch  and  spy  upon  rather  than  to  minister  to 


her  comfort. 

As  poor  Geraldine  watched  the  last  faint  ray  of  light  dis¬ 
appear,  leaving  her  in  utter  darkness,  she  recalled  the 
many  instances  she  had  read  of  people  being  incarcerated 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  8 

in  a  place  like  this,  with  a  pitcher  of  water  and  a  loaf  oi 
bread,  and  left  to  slow  starvation. 

Was  this  to  be  her  fate? 

Was  this  the  punishment  meted  out  to  her  by  the  cruel 
heart  that  was  so  hard  and  bitter  against  her — that  seemed 
determined  to  show  no  mercy  to  the  temporary  folly  and 
weakness  to  which  she  had  been  driven? 

As  these  thoughts  passed  through  Geraldine’s  mind,  she 
heard  the  sound  of  a  step,  followed  by  the  harsh  turning  of 
the  key  in  the  rusty  lock. 

A  moment  later  t  he  ponderous  door  swung  open,  and 
her  husband  entereu. 

The  darkness  had  been  so  intense  and  long-continued, 
that  Geraldine  involuntarily  shielded  her  eyes  from  the 
light  that  that  uplifted  lantern  flashed  into  them. 

Misinterpreting  this,  Bayard  said : 

“No wonder  that  you  shrink  from  the  eye  of  the  man 
you  have  so  basely  injured,  your  loathed  and  hated  hus¬ 
band.” 

The  flashing  eyes  that  were  now  turned  upon  the  speaker 
certainly  had  no  fear  in  their  steady  gaze. 

“Murderer !—  never  hated  and  loathed  as  now — have 
you  come  to  gloat  upon  my  wretchedness,  or  make  an  end 
to  it,  which  ?  Strike,  if  you  will,  only  let  your  aim  be  true 
and  your  hand  steady.” 

“  I  am  no  murderer.  For  what  I  have  done — and  which 
I  would  do  a  thousand  times  over  were  it  necessary  - 
there  is  not  a  court  in  Christendom  but  what  would  hold 
me  guiltless.  Were  you  not  the  mother  of  my  son  you 
should  share  the  same  fate.” 

Tears  quenched  the  fierce  light  in  Geraldine’s  eyes.  The 
allusion  in  the  last  sentence  had  touched  a  chord  that  vi¬ 
brated  through  her  whole  being. 

“And  if  I  were  not  a  mother,  I  would  consider  it  the 
greatest  boon  you  could  grant.  For  the  sake  of  my  children 
I  would  live,  though  every  breath  be  drawn  in  agony. 
For  their  sakes,  I  humble  myself  to  implore  your  mercy. 
There  can  be  no  more  peace  between  us  two,  Kobert.  You 
have  pre-judged  and  condemned  me,  placed  the  worst 
possible  construction  upon  my  folly  and  weakness,  and, 
even  if  I  could  overlook  and  forget  the  past,  you  never 
will.  Give  me  my  baby,  the  child  you  so  causelessly  dis¬ 
owned,  and  the  barest  means  of  living,  and  I  will  go  where 
you  will  never  be  troubled  by  us  again.” 

Here  the  speaker’s  voice,  broken  by  sobs,  ended  in  a 
moan. 

Bayard  gazed  upon  the  pale  face,  over  which  the  tears 
were  streaming  fast,  apparently  unmoved  by  all  he  saw 
there. 


10 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“You  shall  never  step  outside  these  walls,  or  look  upon 
your  child’s  face,  unless  you  sign  this  paper." 

Taking  a  paper  that  her  husband  handed  her  Geraldine 
ran  her  eyes  over  its  contents. 

“Just  Heaven!”  she  cried,  letting  it  fall  from  her  trem¬ 
bling  hands,  “  sign  a  paper  that  declares  my  own  infamy 
and  brands  my  child  as  illegitimate?  Never!  never!” 

Picking  up  the  paper  which  had  fluttered  to  the  floor, 
Bayard  said : 

“Then  you  shall  not  only  never  leave  this  place  alive, 
but  both  your  children  shall  be  taught  to  detest  and  scorn 
your  memory.  Your  son  shall  be  taught  to  regard  you  as 
too  vile  for  him  to  call  himself  such,  and  your  daughter 
trained  to  consider  you  as  the  hated  cause  of  the  inherit¬ 
ance  of  shame  that  will  be  hers.” 

The  speaker  turned  toward  the  door.  Springing  to  her 
feet,  Geraldine  seized  his  arm  with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

“  Stay  I  Ah,  God,  what  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  tor¬ 
tured  so  remorselessly?  If  I  sign  this  paper  will  you  give 
me  my  baby  and  let  me  go?” 

“  If  you  sign  it,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  can  take 
the  child  and  go  where  you  will.” 

“  Give  me  the  paper.” 

Again  did  this  unhappy  lady  read  the  confession  of  her 
guilt,  every  word  of  which  seemed  stamped  in  burning 
characters  upon  her  brain. 

“  I  call  God  to  witness  that  it  is  a  lie!”  she  cried,  raising 
her  streaming  eyes  upward.  “As  black  as  the  black  heart 
that  coined  it !” 

“  Your  language  is  not  over  complimentary,”  responded 
Bayard,  coolly.  “But  no  matter  about  that.  Put  your 
name  there.  ” 

Grasping  the  pen  that  was  placed  in  her  hand,  Geral¬ 
dine  affixed  her  name  hurriedly  to  the  paper,  as  if  she 
feared  that  she  should  lack  courage  to  do  so  if  she  paused 
to  think. 

“It  is  done!”  she  cried,  dashing  the  pen  to  the  earth. 
“  But  I  charge  you  to  remember  that  it  is  done  under  pro¬ 
test;  that  I  declare  my  entire  innocence  of  the  crime  of 
which  this  paper  declares  me  guilty.” 

“  Never  fear;  I  have  a  very  good  memory,  as  you  will 
find.” 

Geraldine  arose  to  her  feet. 

“  Now  open  my  prison  door.  Give  me  my  baby  and  let 
me  go.” 

“All  in  good  time,  madam.  All  that  I  have  promised  I 
shall  perform  to  the  letter,  but  there  is  no  especial  hurry 
that  I’m  aware  of.  It  will  do  you  no  harm  to  nave  a  few 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  11 

tnore  hours  for  solitude  and  reflection.  To-morrow  morn¬ 
ing  will  be  quite  soon  enough,  I  think.” 

Bayard  turned  toward  the  door  as  he  said  this. 

Pressing  0110  hand  to  her  rapidly-beating  heart,  Geraldine 
stretched  out  the  other  toward  him. 

“One  thing  further,”  she  faltered.  “Lionel,  my  boy. 
You  will  let  me  see  him  once  more,  though  it  be  only  to 
bid  him  an  eternal  farewell?” 

“He  that  you  call  your  boy,  but  who  is  your  boy  no 
longer,  is  a  good  many  miles  away  by  this  time.  However 
uncertain  your  future  fate  may,  in  some  respects,  be,  one 
thing  you  may  be  sure  of,  that  you  will  never  look  upon 
his  face  again !” 

Uttering  these  cruel  words,  and  which  fell  like  a  blow 
upon  the  heart  of  the  wretched  mother,  Bayard  passed  out. 

The  door  swung  to  with  a  heavy  clang,  and  Geraldine 
was  alone. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

A  TERRIBLE  DEED. 

The  longer  Geraldine  reflected,  the  more  she  was  con¬ 
vinced  that  she  was  still  at  Hunter's  Lodge. 

She  remembered  hearing  that  it  had  been  originally  built 
by  an  eccentric  old  man,  who  had  a  son,  wholly  vicious  and 
partly  insane. 

There  had  been  strange  rumors  in  regard  to  the  latter. 
That  he  had  once  attempted,  and  nearly  succeeded  in  taking 
his  father’s  life,  and  that  ever  after  he  had  been  incarcer¬ 
ated  in  some  cell  under  ground. 

That  she  was  in  that  cell,  she  entertained  no  doubt  what¬ 
ever. 

And  that  she  would  never  leave  it  without  tbe  consent  of 
the  man  who  placed  her  there,  she  was  equally  as  sure. 

Now  that  she  had  time  to  think  the  matter  over  calmly, 
she  began  to  fear  that  she  had  acted  unwisely  in  signing 
the  papers. 

It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  go  out  to  the  world. 

And  what  if  she  had  made  this  sacrifice  vainly  ?— if  her 
husband  failed  to  keep  his  promise? 

Then  remembering  that,  however  harsh  and  cruel  he 
might  be,  he  was  a  man  th  at  always  prided  himself  on 
keeping  his  word,  she  drove  the  suspicion  from  her  mind. 

Wearied  by  these  fears,  conjectures  and  forebodings,  to¬ 
ward  morning  Geraldine  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  harsh  grating  of  the  lock,  and 
the  sudden  clang  that  followed. 

Springing  to  her  feet,  she  saw,  by  the  faint  light  that 


12 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


streamed  through  the  barred  window,  her  husband  stand 
ing  by  the  door,  with  some  garments  over  his  arm. 

With  an  eager  look  Geraldine  turned  toward  him. 

“  You  have  come  to  take  me  away  from  this  hornble 

Elace — to  give  me  my  baby.  All  night  I  have  seemed  to 
ear  its  wailing  cry  for  me.  It  was  never  away  from  me 
a  day  before.” 

“  It  is  your  own  work  that  you  are  separated  from  her 
now,  and  may  be  always.” 

“Always?”  faltered  the  poor  mother,  “Oh!  surely, 
surely,  Robert,  you  will  not  be  so  cruel,  so  dishonorable,  as 
to  break  your  promise?” 

“I  shall  keep  it  to  the  letter.  What  I  said  was,  that  so 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  you  could  take  your  baby  and  go 
whither  you  would.” 

Geraldine  looked  bewildered  into  the  speaker’s  face. 
“And  who  else  can  it  concern?” 

“  Your  brothers.” 

“  Merciful  Father!” 

Entirely  disregarding  the  piercing  anguish  in  these 
words,  Bayard  continued : 

“  I  took  you  from  them,  and  shall  return  you  to  them. 
Laying  your  confession  and  letter  before  them,  I  shall  leave 
them  to  deal  with  you  as  they  see  fit.” 

Uttering  a  low  cry  of  mortal  terror,  Geraldine  flung  her¬ 
self  upon  the  damp  stones  at  the  speaker’s  feet. 

“No!  no!  Anything— anything  but  that!  Hard  and 
cruel  as  your  heart  is,  I  would  sooner  trust  your  mercy 
than  theirs.  As  a  child,  I  lived  in  terror  of  them,  trem¬ 
bling  at  the  sound  of  their  voices  and  footsteps  They 
were  ever  hard  and  severe  to  my  most  trifling  faults,  and 
I  know  only  too  well  how  they  will  judge  me  now.  Sensi¬ 
tive  and  proud  as  to  their  name  and  honor,  they  will  never 
forgive  the  reproach  I  have  brought  upon  both.” 

With  the  same  stern,  immovable  face,  Bayard  disengaged 
himself  from  the  hands  that  clung  to  his  knees 

“As  I  told  you,  I  shall  leave  your  fate  entirely  to  your 
brothers.  All  you  have  to  decide  is,  whether  you  will  go 
to  them,  or  have  me  summon  them  hither.  I  advise  you 
to  choose  the  former.  If  you  do,  dress  quickly,  as  the  car¬ 
riage  will  be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour.  ” 

Pointing  to  the  garments  that  he  had  tossed  upon  the 
bed,  Bayard  left  the  room. 

With  her  forehead  pressed  closely  to  the  cold,  damp 
stones  upon  which  she  lay,  Geraldine  battled  silently  with 
the  despairing  and  maddening  thoughts  that  rushed  over 
her. 

Hearing  the  returning  steps  she  had  learned  to  know  so 
well,  she  sprung  to  her  feet, 


A  WIFE’S  CHIME . 


ie 


As  she  did  so,  her  eye  fell  upon  a  loose,  rough  stone,  sev 
eral  pounds  in  weight. 

Seizing  it  with  both  hands,  she  stationed  herself  on  a 
wooden  bench  back  of  the  door. 

As  it  swung  back,  the  desperate  and  maddened  woman 
sprung  forward,  the  stone  in  her  hands  falling  heavily  on 
the  top  of  Bayard’s  head,  who,  uttering  a  faint  moan,  sunk 
to  the  ground. 

But  he  was  evidently  only  stunned ;  for  in  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  he  opened  his  eyes. 

On  perceiving  the  form  standing  over  him  with  the  up¬ 
lifted  stone  in  her  hands,  a  wild  plea  for  mercy  trembled 
upon  his  lips. 

But  she,  who  had  been  shown  no  mercy,  showed  none. 

Again  the  stone  descended,  this  time  upon  the  temple ; 
and  with  another  moan  the  head  fell  back. 

For  some  moments  Geraldine  stood  there,  ready,  at  the 
slightest  movement,  to  repeat  the  blow. 

But  there  was  none ;  a  leaden  pallor  overspreading  the 
face,  save  where  the  blood  trickled  from  the  temple,  giving 
it  a  still  more  ghastly  aspect. 

A  sudden  revulsion  coming  over  her,  the  stone  dropped 
from  her  trembling  hands. 

As  she  looked  down  upon  it,  red  with  the  horrible  work 
it  had  done,  a  shudder  convulsed  her  frame. 

“  Ah  I  God,”  she  moaned,  “  and  has  it  come  to  this?  Am 
I  a  murderess — the  murderess  of  the  father  of  my  dear 
babies?  It  is,  it  must  be,  some  horrible  dream,  from  which 
I  shall  soon  awaken.” 

And  flinging  herself  down  by  that  cold,  motionless  form, 
the  wretched  woman  felt  that  she  would  gladly  yield  her 
own  life  to  bring  back  that  she  had  taken. 

Then  other  and  sterner  thoughts  came  over  her. 

If  she  would  escape,  there  must  be  no  delay ;  if  she  would 
gain  possession  of  her  child,  it  must  be  now  or  never. 

Quickly  attiring  herself  in  the  garments  that  had  been 
brought  her,  Geraldine  took  the  key  from  the  fast-stiffen¬ 
ing  hand,  and  passed  out,  locking  the  door  after  her. 

Here  she  found  herself  in  a  narrow,  dimly  lighted  pas¬ 
sage,  which,  after  various  crooks  and  turnings,  led  her  to 
a  steep,  rude  stairway. 

This  evidently  leading  to  the  upper  world,  Geraldine 
paused,  listening  intently  for  some  moments. 

Not  a  sound  was  audible ;  and  knowing  that  it  was  very 
early  for  the  servants  to  be  astir,  creeping  softly  up  the 
stairs,  she  looked  cautiously  around. 

To  her  great  relief  there  was  no  one  visible. 

Remembering  her  husband’s  words  about  the  carriage 
being  at  the  door,  she  was  not  sorry  to  find  herself  in  the 


14 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


back  part  of  the  house,  and  which  was  quite  remote  from 
the  main  entrance. 

The  house  being  much  larger  than  was  needed,  this  part 
of  it  was  not  used,  but  having  wandered  over  it  in  some  of 
her  many  lonely,  restless  moods,  it  was  sufficiently  familiar 
to  her  for  her  to  be  able  to  tell  pretty  clearly  what  course 
to  take  to  reach  her  own  apartments. 

Ascending  some  winding  stairs,  and  passing  through 
various  corridors  and  empty  rooms,  Geraldine  came  to  a 
wide  hall,  whose  familiar  aspect  made  her  pause. 

As  she  did  so,  the  wailing  cry  of  a  babe  smote  upon  her 
ear. 

A  moment  later,  she  heard  the  harsh,  irritated  voice  of 
the  hired  nurse,  trying  to  hush  it. 

Controlling  the  strong  impulse  to  rush  forward  and 
snatch  it  from  her  arms,  Geraldine  pushed  open  a  door  that 
was  ajar  and  walked  noiselessly  in. 

It  was  her  own  room,  the  nursery  being  adjoining. 

Through  the  half-  open  door  came  the  plaintive  wail  that 
appealed  so  strongly  to  the  mother’s  heart. 

Again  that  harsh  voice  grated  upon  her  ear. 

“  Whist,  ye  little  divil,  or  I’ll  give  ye  somethin’  to  screech 
fur !  It’s  nothin’  but  crossness  that  ails  ye.  Sorra  bit  of 
slape  have  I  had  wid  ye  the  night.” . 

A  few  moments  later  the  speaker  stood  in  the  open  door- 
way. 

“  Howly  Vargin!  the  saints  defind  usl”  she  cried,  as  her 
eyes  fell  upon  Geraldine, 

Laying  aside  her  hat,  as  though  she  had  just  come  in 
from  some  journey,  Geraldine  turned  her  eyes  serenely 
upon  that  frightened  face. 

“I  am  Mrs.  Bayard.  You  are  the  new  nurse,  I  sup¬ 
pose  !” 

“  Misthress  Bayard,  is  it?  Sure  an’  I  niver  knew  thero 
was  any  sech.  The  masther  niver  towld  me  that - ” 

“You  know  now,”  interrupted  Geraldine,  a  little 
haughtily.  “  I  hear  the  baby  crying;  bring  it  to  me.” 

Awed  by  that  look  and  tone,  the  woman  obeyed. 

If  she  had  had  any  doubts  as  to  Geraldine’s  identity, 
they  vanished  as  she  saw  how  eagerly  the  babe  sprung  to 
its  mother’s  arms. 

A  feeling  akin  to  rapture  filled  Geraldine’s  heart  as  she 
pressed  the  little  creature  to  her  bosom. 

“  Oh,  my  babe,  my  babe !”  she  thought.  “  I  have  dared 
and  suffered  much  to  get  thee  back  to  my  arms.  Heaven 
pity  those  who  would  seek  to  tear  ihee  from  them  again !” 

The  little  Isabel  was  a  most  lovely  child,  with  the  same 
dark  eyes  and  jetty  hair  that  distinguished  her  beautiful 
mother. 


A  WIFE’S  CHIME .  1 $ 

?  Soothed  by  the  encircling  arms,  the  loving  voice  she 
knew  so  well,  the  child  fell  into  a  tranquil  slumber. 

“Bless  the  darlint!”  ejaculated  Bridget  Connor,  in  quite 
another  tone  and  strain  from  that  she  had  used  before. 
“Sure,  an’  that  is  jest  what  it  was  cryin’  an’  frettin’  fur. 
I  couldn’t  plaze  it,  do  what  I  wud.  One  cud  see  with  half 
an  eye  that  it’s  your  child,  ma’am.  Ye  are  as  alike  as  two 
pays,  barrin’  there’s  a  bit  of  the  father  about  the  mouth.” 

Shuddering  at  this  allusion,  Geraldine  went  into  the 
nursery,  and  laying  the  child  in  the  crib,  stood  looking 
down  upon  it. 

She  had  never  thought  Isabel  like  her  husband,  but  as 
she  gazed  she  could  see  that  there  was,  as  the  girl  bad 
stated,  something  of  the  father  around  the  mouth.  The 

father  she  had  mur -  Ah,  God !  how  could  she  repeat 

the  horrible  word,  or  be  again  what  she  had  been? 

There  was  a  strange  fascination  about  the  sweet  baby- 
mouth,  so  that  she  could  not  withdraw  her  eyes  from  it. 

As  she  gazed,  there  floated  before  her  mental  vision  an¬ 
other  face,  so  white  and  ghastly ;  lips — so  like,  and  yet  so 
unlike — from  which  hau  burst  that  agonizing  plea  for 
mercy. 

Ah !  if  she  had  only  heeded  it.  But  she  was  maddened 
with  grief  and  despair. 

With  a  deathly  sickness  at  her  heart,  Geraldine  stag¬ 
gered,  rather  than  walked,  into  the  adjoining  room,  which 
Bridget  was  engaged  in  tidying. 

“  The  saints  be  betuneusan  harm !”  was  that  individual’s 
pious  ejaculation,  as  she  turned  round,  “it's  as  white  as  a 
shate  ye  are.  An’,  good  fathers!  what’s  that  upon  yer 
arm?” 

In  raising  her  hand  to  her  forehead  the  loose  sleeve  had 
fallen  back  from  the  arm,  disclosing  a  dark  red  stain  upon 
its  clear,  white  surface. 

As  Geraldine  glanced  down  upon  it,  missing  the  chair 
that  Bridget  had  wheeled  forward,  she  slid  downward  to 
the  floor. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OLD  PRUE. 

Believing  that  her  mistress  was  suffering  from  some 
wound  or  hurt,  after  laying  her  on  the  bed,  Bridget  di¬ 
rected  her  chief  attention  to  the  crimson  stain  upon  her 
arm. 

To  her  no  small  astonishment,  however,  the  water  of 
which  she  made  such  a  lavish  use  in  trying  to  restore  her 
caused  it  to  entirely  disappear  without  leaving  a  trace  be¬ 
hind. 


A  WIPE  >S  CRIME, 


“  Sure,  an’  there  isn’t  the  laste  scratch,”  she  said,  as 
Geraldine  opened  her  eyes.  ‘  ‘  I  thought  you  was  hurted. 
It’s  mighty  quare,  so  it  is.” 

Then,  observing  for  the  first  time  the  discolored  marks 
upon  the  wrist,  which  its  delicacy  of  color  and  outline 
made  so  distinctly  visible,  she  gave  it  a  careful  examina¬ 
tion,  but  as  it  was  upon  the  other  arm,  it  only  served  to 
increase  her  perplexity. 

Perceiving  the  danger  of  allowing  the  girl’s  thoughts  to 
run  in  this  direction,  forcing  a  smile  to  her  colorless  lips, 
Geraldine  said : 

“  I  am  not  hurt,  my  good  girl;  I  was  a  little  faint  from 
over-fatigue,  that  is  all.  I  am  quite  recovered  now.” 

Bridget  shook  her  head  dubiously. 

“Yer  lookin’  mighty  white,  onyway.  Ye’d  better  let 
me  go  an’  bring  the  masther.  I  heard  him  up  an’  stirrin’ 
at  daybreak.” 

The  face  of  the  guilty  wife  grew  whiter  yet  with  the 
deadly  apprehension  at  her  heart. 

“No!  no!”  she  said,  hurriedly. 

Then,  a  moment  later : 

“  Mr.  Bayard  is  away.  He  won’t  be  back  again  for— for 
some  time.  Give  me  some  wine  from  the  decanter  that 
you  will  find  on  the  sideboard.  Then  darken  the  room, 
and  I  will  try  to  sleep.” 

The  girl  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  then,  perceiving 
from  Geraldine’s  closed  eyes  that  she  was  sleeping,  or  try¬ 
ing  to  do  so,  left  the  room. 

It  is  said  that  criminals,  after  a  certain  point,  will  sleep 
upon  the  rack,  exhausted  nature  seeking  a  brief  respite  in 
forgetfulness  and  oblivion. 

Certain  it  is  that  Geraldine,  in  spite  of  the  horrors  of  the 
past,  the  perils  that  still  menaced  her,  now  fell  into  a  deep, 
almost  death-like,  slumber. 

She  slept  several  hours,  awakening  with  the  heavy 
weight  upon  her  heart  experienced  by  those  whose  sleep  is 
due  to  the  exhaustion  occasioned  by  some  sharp  and  pro¬ 
longed  sorrow. 

On  going  to  the  mirror  to  arrange  her  hair,  Geraldine 
started  back  at  the  reflection  there.  So  pale,  so  haggard 
and  strange  did  it  look,  that  it  hardly  seemed  like  hers. 

One  would  suppose  that  ten  years  had  passed  over  her 
head  since  she  last  stood  there. 

At  this  moment  Bridget  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 

“  An’  so  it’s  waked  up,  ye  are?  Sure,  an’  it’s  a  foine 
sleep  ye’ ve  had,  though  it’s  not  much  the  bether  ye  are 
lookin’  for  it.  Ye’ll  fale  the  good  effects  after  ye’ve  had 
somethin’  to  ate,  I’m  thinkin’.” 

“I  think  I  shall,”  responded  Geraldine,  with  a  faint 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


1 1 


femile.  “  I  hope  you  have  something  for  my  dinner  that  is 

“Indade,  an’  I  have,  thin.  Briled  chicken  an  baked 
pataties,  smokin’  hot;  lettin’  alone  the  sw^  biscakra  an 
pudden.  It's  a  dinner  fit  fur  a  quane.  Will  ye  have  it 

now,  or  wait  a  bit?”  ,  „ 

“  You  can  bring  it  in  as  soon  as  it  is  ready. 

This  Bridget  did,  who  seemed  to  be  good-natured,  so  tar 
as  she  knew,  and  not  at  all  sorry  that  there  was  to  be  a 
“  misthress  to  the  fore,”  as  she  expressed  it. 

Setting  down  the  tray,  she  took  the  baby  from  Geral¬ 
“  You  needn’t  go,”  said  the  latter.  “  Stay  here;  I  want 

to  talk  to  you.”  ,  ......  ,  _ 

No  ways  disinclined  to  what  was  likely  to  give  her 
opportunity  for  some  use  of  her  tongue,  Bridget  obeyed. 

“  I  don’t  think  I  know  your  name  yet? 

“  Bridget  Connor’s  me  name,  ma’am.” 

“  You  haven’t  been  here  a  great  while,  Bridget  ? 

‘  ‘  I  came  y isterday  noon.  An’  manin’  no  offense,  ma  am, 
it’s  a  month  it  sanies.  If  the  masther  hadnt  offered  to 
double  me  wages,  I  wouldn’t  have  coom  at  all  at  all.  bucn 
n  lonesome,  out-of-the-way  place  as  it  is,  wid  nobody  to 
spake  a  word  to  but  the  naygur  m  the  kitchen  who  s  as 
fcrass  as  two  sticks,  even  if  I’d  demane  mesilf  by  makin 
if  rinds  with  the  likes  of  her.”  # 

“Did  you  come  before  Lionel,  my  little  boy,  wenu 

away  ?” 

Bridget  looked  a  little  surprised  at  this  query. 

“A  little  b’ye  was  tuck  away  jist  afther.  I  mind  now 
that  was  what  they  called  him.  Was  it  your  b  ye,  ma  am? 
But  now  I  look  at  ye,  I  needn’t  ask,  fur  he  had  31st  your 
hair  an’ eyes,  barrir.’  his  chakes  was  like  two  roses,  an 
yours  is  as  white  as  the  wall,  jist.” 

“  Did  he  go  with  his  father?” 

“No;  ’twas  the  hired  man  that  tuck  him.  Battle,  or 
some  such  name,  they  called  him.  I  mind  now  seem’  thim 
put  the  b’ye  in  the  carriage,  an’  how  the  poor  little  crathur 
kept  sobbin’  an’  cryin’  fur  his  mother.” 

As  obtuse  as  the  girl’s  perceptions  were,  there  was  some¬ 
thing  in  that  look  of  agony,  brief  as  it  was,  that  struck 

strangely  upon  her,  , 

“  Sure,  an’  he  didn’t  go  unbeknownst  to  ye,  ma  am? 

“Of  course  not,”  was  the  sharp  rejoinder.  “What  a 

ridiculous  question !” 

Then  in  a  gentle,  conciliatory  tone : 

“  It’s  all  right  his  going  to — to -  Strange  I  cant  re¬ 

member  the  name  of  the  place.  ” 

“I  didn’t  hear  ’em  say  where  it  was,  maam,  said 


A  WIFE  CRIME. 


aa 

Bridget,  in  response  to  the  inquiring  look  fixed  so  eagerly 
upon  her.  “The  man  that  tuck  him  away,  him  they 
called  Battle,  didn’t  look  as  if  he  cud  give  a  civil  answer, 
if  he  thried,  an’  I  asked  no  questions.  Him  an’  the  nagur 
is  of  one  piece,  I’m  thinkin’.  Both  on ’em  wud  get  their 
walkin’  tickets  mighty  sudden  if  I  was  to  the  fore?’ 

Without  appearing  to  notice  the  hint  conveyed  by  these 
words,  Geraldine  said: 

“You  looked  very  much  astonished  when  you  saw  me.” 

“  Indade  an’  I  was,  ma’am.  Whin  I  see  ye  standin’  in 
the  middle  of  the  flure,  jist  as  if  ye  belonged  there,  it  give 
me  sech  a  turn  as  I  hain’t  got  over  yet.” 

“  And  so  I  did  belong  there,”  was  the  quick  response.  “No 
one  has  so  good  a  right  to  be  here  as  I.” 

“  Av  coorse.  Sure,  an’  that’s  aisy  seen.  But  manin’  no 
oflinse,  ma’am,  I  can’t  help  thinkin’  it’s  mighty  quare  that 
the  masther  didn’t  let  fall  a  word  as  to  how  I  was  to  expect 
ye.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say,  Bridget,”  said  Geraldine,  with 
a  constrained  laugh,  “that  Mr.  Bayard  told  you  he  had  no 
wife?” 

This  question  was  evidently  something  of  a  puzzler  to 
the  honest  but  rather  obtuse  mind  to  which  it  was  directed. 

“No,  ma’am,  I  can’t  say  that.  Sure,  an’  I  knew  he  had 
a  wife  once,  because  of  the  childer.  Igion’t  mind  now  jist 
what  he  did  say,  but  he  give  me  the  impression  that  she 
was  aither  dead  or  gone  off,  niver  to  come  back  again.” 

“You  must  have  misunderstood  him,”  smiled  Geraldine. 
“  Mr.  Bayard  is  a  little  peculiar,  perhaps,  to  those  who 
don’t  know  him,  but  he  couldn’t  have  meant  that.” 

“  Faith  an’  I  suppose  he  couldn’t,”  said  Bridget,  rubbing 
her  forehead  with  her  forefinger,  as  though  clearing  away 
some  mental  cobwebs.  “It  don’t  look  much  like  it  any¬ 
way  to  see  you  settin’  there  so  much  at  home,  an’  the 
baby  a-smilm’  an’  cooin’  at  ye,  as  though  she  niver  saw 
the  likes  av  ye,  bliss  her!  An’  I’m  not  sorry  for  that  same 
afther.  As  thrue  as  ye  are  settin’  there  if  ye  hadn’t  coom 
I  wouldn’t  have  stayed  the  wake  out.  No,  not  for  double 
me  wages,  twice  over.” 

“  And  I  am  glad  that  you  are  here,  too,”  smiled  Geral¬ 
dine.  “  I  hope  you’ll  stay  as  long  as  I  do.” 

“It’s  mesilf  that  hopes  it  won’t  be  long,  thin.  One 
might  be  sort  of  continted  in  warm  weather,  when  you 
can  get  out  av  dures,  but  it  must  be  lonesome  enough  in 
winter.  Sure,  an’  ye  don’t  mane  to  stay  here,  thin?” 

“  I  don’t  think  I  shall  be  here  through  the  winter,”  said 
Geraldine,  a  little  gravely,  as  the  query  arose  in  her  mind 
as  to  where  she  would  be  then. 

Taking  the  baby  from  Bridget’s  arms,  Geraldine  bid  her 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


19 


remove  the  tray,  and  bring  her  some  crackers  and  a  glass 
of  new  milk ;  the  little  creature  manifested  every  indica¬ 
tion  of  joy  and  eagerness  at  an  order  she  well  knew  was 
for  her  express  benefit. 

“  Does  Isabel  want  some  crackers  and  nice  new  milk?” 
said  the  fond  mother,  kissing  the  little  fluttering  hands  and 
sweet  dimpled  mouth. 

Bridget  was  not  long  in  executing  this  order. 

Setting  the  tray  down  before  her  mistress,  she  said : 

“  The  carriage  that  ye  come  in  is  still  at  the  dure, 
ma’am.  The  horses  will  be  nigh  about  aiten  up  by  the 
flies,  poor  bastes  !” 

Geraldine  mused  a  little  before  she  replied: 

“The  hired  man  being  away,  there  is  no  one  to  put  them 
in  the  stable,  I  suppose?” 

“  The  masther  might,  if  he  was  here.  But  he’s  gone,  ye 
say?” 

“  He  is  gone.” 

As  Geraldine  said  this,  she  hid  her  face  among  the 
clustering  curls  of  the  child  that  was  prattling  on  her 
knee,  which  perhaps,  was  what  made  he#  voice  sound  so 
strange  and  hollow. 

“I  towlnd  the  cook  what  ye  said,  ma’am,  an’  she  was  as 
imperdant  as  ye  plase.  She  said,  ‘  it  was  little  you  knew 
about  it.’  If  I  was  to  the  fore,  I’d  send  her  kitin’.  I’d 
sooner  do  the  bit  of  cookin’  ye  made,  mesilf,  than  be 
bothered  wid  the  likes  av  her.” 

Geraldine  listened  to  these  words  with  a  heart  that  was 
evidently  ill  at  ease. 

“I  wouldn’t  mind  what  old  Prue says,  Bridget,  nor  talk 
much  with  her  any  way.  She  has  her  cross  days,  and  I 
suppose  this  is  one  of  them.  I  am  sorry  about  the  horses, 
though.  They  are  very  gentle,  and  when  baby  is  asleep, 
we’ll  see  if  we  can’t  put  them  up  ourselves.” 

“  Indade,  an’  ye’ll  do  no  sech  thing,  ma’am.  I’ll  do  it 
mesilf,  an’ wid  no  help  from  onybody.  Many’s  the  time 
I’ve  harnessed  an’  unharnessed  ’em  in  the  ould  counthry. 
An’  I’d  done  it  before  if  the  nagur  hadn’t  dared  me  to  tech 
’em.  Whin  I  wint  down  to  the  kitchen  for  the  milk  an’ 
crackers,  I  sez  to  her : 

“  ‘There’s  the  carriage  still  at  the  dure  that  the  mis- 
thress  coom  in,  an’  the  poor  bastes  nigh  aboot  dead  with 
the  hate  an’  flies.’ 

“Wid  that  she  pricked  up  her  ears,  lookin’ at  me  rale 
sharp. 

“  ‘  Did  madam,’  manin’  you,  ma’am,  ‘  say  that  she  coom 
in  the  carriage?’  sez  she. 

“  ‘Indade  an’  she  did,’  sez  I. 

**  ‘  Then  she’s  a  liar,’  sez  she. 


20 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“  Beggin  yer  pardon  fur  repatin’  it,  but  that  be  the  very 
words,  ma’am.” 

Kecking  the  baby  to  and  fro,  that  she  was  lulling  to 
sleep  upon  her  breast,  Geraldine’s  thoughts  were  busy  with 
the  new  peril  that  menaced  her. 

She  knew  what  old  Prue  was.  Strongly  attached  to  her 
husband,  whose  nurse  she  had  been  in  his  babyhood,  she 
had  always  manifested  quite  as  strong  a  dislike  and  sus¬ 
picion  of  her  from  the  first  of  their  acquaintance. 

Anxious  to  ascertain  what  the  old  woman  suspected,  if 
anything,  she ’said: 

“  How  did  she  think  I  came?” 

“  ‘  That’s  jist  what  I  said  to  her,  ma’am.  ‘  An’  how  wud 
she  coom,  on  fut  an’  alone?’  sez  I. 

“  ‘  That’s  best  known  to  hersilf,’  sez  she. 

“  An’  not  another  word  cud  I  get  out  av  her,  good  or  bad. 
Save  whin  I  mintioned  that  I  cud  put  the  bastes  in  the 
stable  mesilf.  Thin  she  flew  into  a  towrin’  rage,  declarin’ 
that  Masther  Robert  put  ’em  there,  an’  they  shouldn’t  be 
teched  by  nobody  till  he  coom.” 

Entering  the  nursery,  Geraldine  laid  the  sleeping  babe  in 
its  crib. 

“I  think  the  horses  had  better  be  put  up,”  she  said  to 
Bridget,  who  had  followed.  “  I  will  go  with  you.  I  don’t 
think  Prue  will  say  anything  to  you  if  I  am  there.  If  she 
should,  don’t  answer  her.  You  see,  she  is  Mr.  Bayard’s  old 
nurse,  not  only  taking  care  of  him  when  a  child,  but  serv¬ 
ing  him  faithfully  ever  since ;  so  she  naturally  takes  more 
liberty  than  she  otherwise  would,  especially  where  he  is 
concerned.  She  never  liked  me.” 

“That’s  mighty  quare,”  responded  Bridget,  her  eyes  rest¬ 
ing  with  a  look  of  honest  admiration  on  the  pale  but  lovely 
face  of  her  mistress,  to  whom  she  had  taken  a  strong  liking. 
“  Sure  an’  a  body  wudn’t  think  she  cud  help  it,  if  she  thried. 
It’s  too  good-natured  ye  are.  It’s  me  belafe  that  to  be  tuck 
down  a  peg  or  two  wudn’t  do  her  ony  harm.  You  naden’t 
have  ony  fear  of  me,  ma’am.  I  won’t  spake  a  word,  or 
aven  look  at  her.” 

Without  any  further  words,  the  strong-armed,  willing- 
hearted  girl  stood  beside  the  restive  creatures,  patting  the 
arched  and  shining  necks,  that  were  evidently  glad  enough 
to  get  freed  from  the  post  to  which  they  were  tied. 

Catching  a  glimpse  of  what  was  going  on  from  the  broad 
window-seat  where  she  was  sitting,  Prue  sprung  out  upon 
the  porch,  evidently  ready  for  battle. 

“  See  here,  you!  you’d  better  let  them  hossesbel  Marse 
Robert  wants  to  use  ’em.” 

Bridget  made  no  reply,  and  Geraldine  now  coming  down 
the  steps  into  view,  Prue  said  no  more,  but  stood  leaning 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME 21 

against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch,  watching  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  in  sullen  silence. 

She  was  a  woman  of  about  fifty,  of  the  most  pronounced 
African  type,  as  her  woolly  locks  and  jet-black  skin  testi¬ 
fied. 

She  was  not  wanting  in  the  shrewdness  peculiar  to  such, 
nor  yet  in  native  kindliness  of  heart,  where  she  “took.” 
But  she  never  had  taken  to  her  master’s  wife.  There  had 
been  mutual  distrust  and  aversion  between  the  two  from 
the  first,  and  which  recent  events  had  not  served  to 
lessen. 

Bridget  had  gone  with  the  carriage  to  the  stable,  and 
slowly  and  wearily  Geraldine  ascended  the  steps,  and 
which  brought  her  near  the  place  where  Prue  stood. 

Under  the  circumstance,  anxious  to  conciliate  rather 
than  irritate,  Geraldine  greeted  her  pleasantly  as  she  ap¬ 
proached. 

Prue  made  no  response  to  this  either  by  word  or  look. 

“That  ’ar  gal  say  ” — with  a  waving  of  the  long,  lank 
arm  toward  the  carriage- road — “  that  you  say  Marse  Rob¬ 
ert  gone?” 

Startled  by  this  abrupt  query,  Geraldine  paused. 

“That  is  precisely  what  I  did  say.” 

“Where?” 

However  Geraldine  might  have  felt,  she  met  unflinch¬ 
ingly  those  keen,  questioning  eyes. 

“  Why  do  you  ask  inei  You  know  more  of  Mr.  Bayard’s 
comings  and  goings  than  I  do.” 

“  So  I  allers  did,”  muttered  the  old  woman.  “  An’  that’s 
why  I  think  so  strange  now.” 

Geraldine  moved  a  step  forward,  and  then  turned  back. 

“  You  can  tell  me  where  my  boy,  Lionel,  has  gone  at  all 
events?” 

The  old  woman’s  eyes  lighted  up  like  a  half-extinguished 
coal  of  fire. 

She  raised  her  arm  with  a  half-threatening,  half-triumph¬ 
ant  gesture. 

“Ay,  that  I  can.  He’s  gone  where  you  won’t  see  him, 
never  ag’in  1” 


CHAPTER  V. 

NEW  FEARS  AND  PERILS. 

Though  Geraldine  heard  P rue’s  threat  with  cold,  impass¬ 
ive  face,  deigning  no  reply  to  it,  it  fell  heavy  on  her 
heart. 

Her  boy,  her  noble  and  beautiful  boy !  was  she  never  to 
see  him  again? 

It  was  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  clew  to  his  where 


*s 


22  A  WIFE'S  0 RIME. 

abouts  that  she  still  lingered  at  a  place  rendered  hateful  by 
such  horrible  associations,  and  where  the  perils  thickened 
round  her  steps  hourly. 

But  for  this  she  would  take  her  only  remaining  child  and 
flee,  putting  as  many  miies  between  them  and  Hunter’s 
Lodge  as  possible.  But  while  the  faintest  hope  remained, 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  do  this. 

It  was  evident  that  the  only  way  to  this  knowledge  lay 
through  the  man  who  had  taken  him  away ;  and  her  heart 
was  divided  between  impatience  for  his  return  and  terror 
at  the  questions  and  suspicions  on  his  part,  to  which  her 
husband’s  sudden  and  unexplained  absence  could  not  fail 
to  give  rise. 

This  man  had  been  in  Mr.  Bayard’s  employ  for  several 
years,  having,  when  a  lad,  by  some  famous  encounter  and 
victory  over  his  namesake,  obtained  the  sobriquet  of  Rat¬ 
tlesnake  Jim,  and  which,  in  the  process  of  time,  had  been 
shortened  into  “  Rattle.” 

He  had  attached  himself  to  his  master’s  service  with  an 
almost  dog-like  fidelity  and  affection,  and  though  he  had 
neither  the  strong  prejudices  nor  excitable  temperament  of 
Prue,  he  had  almost  as  strong  a  dislike  and  suspicion  of 
Geraldine.  It  was  something  to  which  he  rarely  gave  ex¬ 
pression,  but  Geraldine  was  not  ignorant  of  it. 

Peeling  that  they  disliked  her,  she  had  taken  no  pains  to 
ingratiate  herself  with  them;  receiving  the  grudging  serv¬ 
ice  they  rendered  her  with  haughty  indifference. 

Perhaps,  in  the  strange  and  terrible  position  in  which  she 
was  now  placed,  she  wished  that  she  had  taken  some  pains 
to  conciliate  them.  Certain  it  is,  that  often  the  thought 
of  her  lonely  and  unprotected  situation  struck  terror  to  her 
soul. 

The  following  morning  Geraldine  passed  by  the  pantry 
window  where  old  Prue  was  kneading  bread. 

“  Good  morning,  Prue.” 

Prue  had  always  returned  ungraciously,  as  if  under  pro¬ 
test,  any  greeting  from  her  mistress ;  she  now  gave  her  a 
darker  look  than  usual,  proceeding  to  bring  down  some 
baking-tins  from  a  high  shelf  with  a  clatter  and  energy 
entirely  disproportioned  to  the  occasion. 

“  Good-morning — when  Marse  Robert  gone,  nobody  know 
where?  It  may  be  to  you.  I  dessay ’tis.” 

Believing  it  to  be  the  best  policy  to  ignore  the  insinuation 
conveyed  by  these  words,  Geraldine  said: 

“  When  is  Rattle  coming  back?” 

“  He's  cornin’  back,  Rattle  is,  never  you  mind  when,”  re¬ 
sponded  the  old  woman,  still  more  darkly. 

Geraldine  elevated  her  eye -brows,  with  a  look  com¬ 
pounded  of  surprise  and  impatience. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


23 


“  I  suppose  he  is;  at  least  I  hope  so.” 

It  being  a  settled  conviction  of  Prue’s  that  her  mistress 
was,  as  she  expressed  it,  a  snake  in  the  grass,”  seldom 
saying  what  she  meant  or  meaning  what  she  said,  she  shook 
her  head  doubtfully. 

“  P’r’aps  you  do.  I  dun  know.” 

Then,  her  mind  traveling  in  the  same  weary  track,  she 
added : 

“  Marse  Robert  didn’t  go  with  him.  Mebby  he  went 
after?” 

The  speaker  fixed  her  eyes  sharply  and  inquiringly  upon 
Geraldine’s  face,  as  if  more  anxious  to  get  the  expression 
there  than  any  verbal  reply. 

But  anxious  as  Geraldine  was  to  give  Prue  some  satis¬ 
factory  reason  for  her  husband’s  absence,  she  saw  plainly 
that  Rattle’s  return,  which  might  occur  at  any  moment, 
would  upset  any  such  theory  as  this. 

“  No,  Prue,”  she  said,  with  an  appearance  of  great  can¬ 
dor,  “  I  don’t  think  Mr.  Bayard  went  with  him.” 

For  some  moments  these  two — so  widely  different  in  ap¬ 
pearance  and  position — stood  there,  as  if  each  was  trying 
to  read  the  soul  of  the  other. 

Geraldine  was  the  first  to  speak, 

“  It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  for  Mr.  Bayard  to  be  absent, 
Prue — in  fact,  it  has  been  of  late  quite  an  unusual  thing 
for  him  not  to  be— why  do  you  feel  so  worried  about  him 
now?” 

The  old  woman  lifted  her  long  dark  forefinger,  her 
gleaming  eyes  and  black,  wrinkled  face  making  her  look 
not  unlike  one  of  the  avenging  Furies. 

“  I  know,  and  so  do  you .” 

Geraldine’s  face  paled  a  little — with  all  her  self-control 
she  could  not  help  that — but,  recovering  herself  almost 
instantly,  she  passed  on  with  her  usually  slow,  stately 
step. 

But  as  she  reached  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber  a 
cold  perspiration  burst  from  the  pale  face,  accompanied  by 
a  stricture  around  the  throat,  as  though  she  already  felt 
the  hangman’s  halter  there. 

That  ghastly  thing  that  was  lying  down  there,  hidden 
from  every  eye  save  one,  would  it  ever  be  dragged  forth  to 
accuse  her? 

How  much  did  this  horrible  old  woman  know  ? 

That  she  knew  of  her  recent  trouble  with  her  husband, 
that  she  suspected  that  she  had  some  hand  in  his  disap¬ 
pearance,  this  was  certain;  but  did  she  know  of  her  incar¬ 
ceration  in  the  dungeon  below? 

Xf  so,  the  connection  between  her  appearance  and  his 


24  A  WIFE'S  CHIME. 

disappearance  would  make  the  finding  of  the  body  only  a 
matter  of  time. 

She  knew  Prue’s  dislike  of  her,  her  fidelity  and  attach¬ 
ment  to  her  master,  the  blood-hound  ferocity  with  which 
she  would  hunt  down  his  murderer. 

Ought  she  not  to  flee  now,  while  there  was  time? 

“Was  it  not  madness  in  her  to  defer  it  in  the  vague 
hope  that  she  could  induce  Rattle  to  betray  her  boy’s  hid¬ 
ing-place? 

She  knew  what  this  man  was ;  how  faithful  he  was  to  his 
master’s  interests ;  how  little  likelihood  there  was  that  any 
influence  she  might  exert  would  move  him. 

Then  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  confession  extorted 
from  her,  the  letter  that  her  husband  had  taken  from  her 
dead  lover’s  breast,  and  what  terrible  witnesses  they 
would  be  against  her. 

She  recalled  her  husband’s  words,  “  that  he  would  lay 
them  before  her  brothers,”  not  that  he  Imd  done  so. 

In  all  human  probability  those  papers  were  about  him 
while  he  spoke,  that  they  were  about  him  when - 

Ah,  God!  how  could  she  bear  to  look  back  upon  that 
brief  season  of  madness  and  despair,  and  the  horrible 
work  it  had  wrought? 

For  she  was  mad,  mad!  Had  it  been  premeditated,  had 
it  been  anything  else  but  the  frenzy  of  a  hunted  animal 
brought  to  bay,  she  would  have  secured  those  papers  be¬ 
fore  she  left. 

As  it  was,  she  thought  only  of  her  children,  of  escaping 
the  harsh  sentence  that  had  been  pronounced  upon  her 
and  them. 

She  must  not  go  away  and  leave  those  papers  behind, 
and  where  they  would,  if  found,  tell  so  strongly  against 
her. 

She  would  wait  until  midnight,  when  all  the  house  was 
still,  and  go  down  and  secure  them, 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  veins,  as  she  thought  of  all 
that  this  would  involve,  the  danger  that  attended  it,  but 
for  her  children’s  sake,  if  not  for  her  own,  have  them  she 
must. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

HER  HUSBAND’S  DIARY. 

Now  that  Geraldine  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  to  get, 
at  whatever  cost,  those  dangerous  papers  into  her  own  pos¬ 
session,  she  began  to  be  feverishly  impatient  for  the  shades 
of  night,  under  whose  friendly  cover  it  could  alone  be  at¬ 
tempted. 

Knowing  what  it  was  that  had  called.  Rattle  from  Hunt-’ 


A  WIFE  '8  CRIME, 


25 


er’s  Lodge,  and  who  he  took  with  him,  she  had  felt,  at 
times,  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  confront  this  man, 
and  wrest  his  secret  from  him. 

But  all  this  was  now  merged  in  the  feai  lest  his  return 
should  prevent,  or  at  least  make  it  difficult,  to  carry  her 
design  into  execution. 

She  employed  the  intervening  time  in  making  a  thorough 
examination  of  her  husband’s  papers,  hoping  to  find  some 
letter  or  memoranda  that  would  give  her  some  clew  as  to 
where  he  had  sent  her  boy. 

The  desk  in  which  .  he  kept  his  private  papers  was 
locked,  nor  could  she  find  any  key  that  would  open  it. 

Perceiving  there  was  no  other  way  to  achieve  her  pur¬ 
pose,  Geraldine  determined  to  force  the  lock. 

Procuring  a  chisel  and  some  strong  wire,  and  taking  the 
precaution  to  send  Bridget  out  to  give  her  young  charge  an 
airing  in  her  little  carriage,  Geraldine  bolted  the  door,  so 
as  to  guard  against  any  interruption,  and  commenced 
operations. 

She  did  not  find  so  much  difficulty  as  she  expected;  a 
few  moments’  vigorous  handling  of  the  instruments  at  her 
command,  and  the  lock  yielded. 

Almost  the  first  thing  that  Geraldine  saw,  as  she  opened 
the  desk,  was  a  photograph  lying  in  one  corner  of  it. 

On  the  back  of  it,  in  her  husband’s  handwriting,  were 
these  words: 

“  My  Darling’s  Picture.” 

As  she  turned  it  over,  her  own  lovely  face,  radiant  with 
the  bloom  and  brightness  that  had  no  part  there  now, 
smiled  softly  up  at  her. 

She  remembered  when  it  was  taken,  a  few  days  after 
her  marriage,  and,  at  her  husband’s  request,  attired  as  she 
stood  at  the  altar,  the  bridal  veil  which  fell  around  her  en¬ 
hancing,  while  it  half  veiled,  her  loveliness. 

She  recalled  his  lover-like  devotion,  the  ill-concealed  in¬ 
difference,  weariness,  and  even  impatience  with  which  she 
had  received  its  every  manifestation ;  the  thought  striking 
her  for  the  first  time  that  in  marrying  a  woman  who  had 
no  heart  to  give  him,  he  had  been  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning. 

Laid  carefully  away,  as  though  something  exceedingly 
precious,  were  a  few  letters  she  had  written  him  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage,  during  a  temporary  separation. 

Untying  the  ribbon  that  bound  them,  she  ran  her  eye 
over  their  contents. 

How  cold  and  brief  they  were,  how  different  from  the 
warm  and  loving  epistles  to  which  they  responded,  if  a  re¬ 
sponse  they  could  be  called  1 


26 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


The  next  thing  she  took  up  W  ts  a  red  morocco  book  with 
silver  clasps,  and  on  which,  in  black  lettering,  was  the 
word  “  Diary.” 

She  knew  it  to  be  her  husband’s ;  she  had  often  seen  him 
write  in  it  latterly,  with  a  dark,  stern  face,  as  though 
what  he  had  to  trace  there  made  it  anything  but  a  pleasant 
task. 

Possibly  the  clew  she  was  anxious  to  obtain  was  here. 

A  strange  feeling  came  over  Geraldine  as  she  opened  it; 
it  seemed  like  the  opening  of  a  tomb. 

She  recalled  to  mind  the  last  time  she  had  seen  her  hus¬ 
band  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  this  book  open  before  him — 
only  a  few  days  ago,  though  it  seemed  such  a  long  time  to 
her  now. 

How,  with  her  baby  on  her  knee,  she  had  watched  his 
dark,  moody  face,  a  strange,  vague  terror  coming  over  her 
as  she  saw  the  change  there. 

She  remembered  how  glad  she  was  when  he  got  up  and 
left  the  room.  Ah !  if  she  could  only  see  him  sitting  there 
again,  no  matter  how  dark  his  face  might  be  or  how  heavy 
his  hand  against  her!  Oh!  to  be  able  to  blot  out  the  inter¬ 
vening  time,  with  all  its  dark  record ! 

Crushing  down  this  wild,  vain  wish,  Geraldine  addressed 
herself  to  the  task  before  her. 

The  first  entries  in  the  diary  showed  that  it  had  been 
commenced  before  their  marriage,  and  not  long  after  he 
first  saw  her,  being  full  of  enthusiastic  comments  on  her 
grace  and  beauty,  and  the  impression  they  made  upon 
him. 

“  September  3,  18 — . — Was  introduced  last  evening,  by 
Lorenzo  Gaspardo,  to  his  sister,  Geraldine.  A  young 
creature  so  altogether  charming  and  lovely  I  never  beheld. 
She  is  rather  tall,  but  so  perfectly  molded  that  she  does 
not  seem  the  least  bit  too  much  so. 

‘  ‘  Her  eyes  are  large  and  expressive,  with  a  velvety  soft¬ 
ness  in  their  intense  blackness  that  I  never  saw  in  any 
eyes  before. 

‘  ‘  She  has  the  most  lovely  color,  which  is  never  station¬ 
ary,  but  keeps  coming  and  going  in  the  most  bewitching 
manner  possible,  and  her  hands  are  the  whitest  and  softest 
imaginable. 

“Her  manner  is  as  perfect  as  her  face,  being  a  most 
charming  combination  of  girlish  timidity,  gentleness  and 
grace. 

“  I  have  seen  beautiful  women  by  the  score,  but  none 
that  ever  affected  me  as  she  does.  I  consider  it  to  be  a 
most  fortunate  thing  my  meeting  her. 

‘  ‘  Her  brother  was  most  kind  and  cordial,  He  invited 
me  to  call  again,  and  I  mean  to  do  so.” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


m 

tl  A  most  fortunate  thing!” 

As  Gt-eraldine  read  these  words,  there  rose  up  before  her 
the  terrible  look  in  her  husband’s  eyes,  as  he  cursed  the 
day  that  he  ever  saw  her  false  and  beautiful  face. 

The  scales  suddenly  fell  from  her  blinded  eyes. 

Had  he  not  reason  to  do  so? 

Instead  of  being  his  good  angel,  as  she  should  have  been, 
calling  forth  in  him  all  that  was  good  and  gentle,  had  she 
not  fanned  in  his  breast  the  destroying  fire  that  had 
wrought  all  this  misery  and  desolation? 

Taking  up  the  diary,  Geraldine  read  on. 

For  several  pages,  it  was  only  a  transcript  of  the  above, 
or,  rather,  a  detailed  account  of  how  the  admiration  it  ex- 
pressed  grew  and  culminated  into  passionate  love. 

It  seemed  not  to  have  entirely  blinded  him,  for,  in  allud¬ 
ing  to  her,  he  wrote : 

“It  may  be  timidity,  but  it  almost  seems,  sometimes,  as 
if  she  were  afraid  of  her  brothers,  who  have  an  abrupt,  if 
not  to  say  harsh,  way  of  speaking  to  her.  Can  it  be*  that 
her  home  is  not  a  happy  one?  It  doesn’t  seem  possible. 
Surely  no  one  could  treat  harshly  one  so  fair  and  gentle? 

“  But  if  it  be  so,  it  is  only  an  additional  incentive  to  me 
to  offer  her  my  love  and  protection;  a  home,  in  which 
nothing  that  is  harsh  or  gloomy  shall  ever  enter,  a  love  so 
tender,  that  it  will  be  joy  to  shield  her  from  the  slightest 
sorrow, 

“  My  dainty  and  beautiful  darling!  how  fast  my  heart 
beats  at  the  thought  that  I  shall  some  day  hold  her  in  my 
arms,  my  loved  and  loving  wife.  But  I  must  not  be  too 
precipitate,  lest  I  frighten  her.” 

The  next  entry  was  made  several  weeks  later,  bearing 
the  following  date : 

“  November  4. — This  has  been  a  memorable  and  exciting 
day  to  me.  Happy  in  some  respects,  and  yet  I  hardly 
know  whether  it  has  not  brought  quite  as  much  pain  as 
pleasure. 

“  Geraldine,  though  born  in  this  country,  is  Italian  by 
descent,  as  her  name  indicates,  her  father  being  obliged  to 
leave  Italy,  for  some  political  offense,  when  quite  a  young 
man. 

“  Though  I  was  pretty  sure  that  her  brothers  favored  my 
suit,  knowing  it  to  be  customary  with  such,  I  made 
formal  mention  of  my  intentions  before  I  said  a  word  to 
my  darling,  though  I  hardly  know  that  words  were  nec¬ 
essary  to  tell  her  how  passing  dear  she  had  become. 

“  Her  brothers  not  only  gave  me  their  cordial  approval, 
but  the  assurance  that  their  sister  was  heart-free  and  most 
favorably  disposed  toward  me. 


28 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


“  This  was  in  the  morning. 

“  I  saw  Geraldine  that  same  evening  by  appointment. 

“  To  my  astonishment  and  disappointment,  when  1 
broached  the  subject,  she  burst  into  tears,  declaring  that 
she  had  no  heart  to  give  me,  that  it  was  lying  in  her  dead 
lover’s  grave. 

“She  looked  so  prettily  as  she  said  this,  her  eyes  shone 
so  brightly  through  the  tears  that  filled  them,  and  she  was, 
in  fact,  so  thoroughly  charming  in  her  helplessness  and  dis¬ 
tress,  that  after  the  first  shock  was  passed  I  was,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  more  madly  in  love  with  her  than  ever ;  more  thor¬ 
oughly  determined  to  win  her  heart,  if  it  was  in  the  power 
of  mortal  man  to  do  so. 

“  Prefacing  it  with  the  assurance  that  she  need  fear  no 
persecution  from  me,  I  besought  her  to  remember  how 
young  she  was — far  too  young  and  beautiful  to  doom  her¬ 
self  to  voluntary  widowhood.  If  so  much  happiness  was 
not  for  me,  some  more  fortunate  man  would  prove  to  her 
that  affections  blighted  so  early  would  bloom  again. 

“  She  shook  her  head  at  this  as  though  she  thought  such 
a  thing  impossible,  but  her  manner  was  so  gentle,  she 
thanked  me  so  sweetly  for  my  sympathy  and  forbearance, 
that  I  went  away  entertaining  far  more  hope  than  fear. 

‘  ‘  When  I  mentioned  to  Geraldine’s  brothers  what  she 
had  told  me,  they  made  light  of  it,  declaring  it  to  be  a  fool¬ 
ish  attachment,  which  they  entirely  disapproved  of,  a 
mere  girlish  fancy,  that  would  soon  die  out. 

“  Lorenzo,  the  elder  of  the  two,  has  offered  to  exert  his 
influence  in  my  behalf,  which  I  gladly  accepted,  forbid¬ 
ding,  however,  that  the  slightest  restraint  should  be  put 
upon  her  inclinations. 

“How  it  will  result  I  hardly  know,  but  she  is  so  young, 
so  gentle,  that  I  can  but  hope  for  the  best. 

“  November  10.—  I  am  nearly  wild  with  delight!  Give 
me  joy,  my  dear  journal,  Geraldine  has  promised  to  be 
mine !  Having  no  one  to  confide  in,  I  hardly  know  what  I 
should  do  if  I  had  not  your  friendly  pages  upon  which  to 
pour  out  all  my  hopes  and  fears. 

‘  ‘  But  let  me  relate  what  has  occurred  from  the  begin¬ 
ning. 

“  From  motives  of  delicacy  I  did  not  visit  Geraldine  for 
a  week— and  a  long  week  it  seemed  to  me.  Near  its  close, 
and  just  as  I  was  thinking  that  I  could  stay  away  no  lon- 

£er,  I  received  a  message  from  her  through  her  brother 
lOrenzo  that  she  would  like  to  see  me. 

“Hoping,  though  hardly  daring  to  believe,  that  she  had 
relented,  I  lost  no  time  in  responding  to  her  summons. 
Meeting  me  at  the  door,  her  brother  conducted  me  to  the 
room  where  his  sister  was  sitting. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


20 


“  It  was  rather  dimly  lighted,  and  I  thought  her  looking 
rather  pale;  but  her  mother  had  mentioned  that  she  had 
suffered  from  some  slight  indisposition,  induced  by  a  cold, 
I  think,  so  I  thought  nothing  of  that. 

“  To  my  great  delight,  my  darling  said,  her  voic$ 
trembling  a  little  as  she  spoke,  that  she  had  reconsidered 
my  proposition,  and  if,  knowing  what  she  had  told  me,  I 
was  willing  to  make  her  my  wife,  she  would  do  her  best  to 
give  me  a  wife’s  love  and  duty. 

“Her  words  sounded  a  little  strange  and  formal,  but  her 
brothers  were  present,  which  might  account  for  that. 

“As  soon  as  she  had  ceased  speaking,  her  elder  brother 
stepped  forward  and  placed  her  hand  in  mine.  Then  the 
two  went  out,  leaving  us  together. 

“She  looked  so  fair  and  sweet  as  she  stood  there,  her 
eyes  cast  timidly  to  the  floor,  that  I  could  scarcely  restrain 
myself  from  clasping  her  in  my  arms.  But,  determined 
to  prove  to  her  how  little  cause  she  had  to  fear,  how  de¬ 
sirous  I  was  that  she  should  have  no  occasion  to  regret  the 
priceless  privileges  accorded  me,  I  raised  her  hand  tenderly 
to  my  lips,  declaring  how  happy  her  words  made  me,  and 
in  spite  of  the  past,  I  felt  sure  that  I  should  be  able  to  win 
her  love,  now  that  I  had  the  opportunity. 

“With  her  bright  eyes  shining  brightly  through  tears, 
she  faltered  that  she  hoped  I  would  give  her  time,  and  be 
gentle  and  patient  with  her. 

“In  a  transport  of  love,  I  vowed  that  no  man  could  be 
more  tender,  more  gentle  and  patient  than  I  would  be  with 
her. 

“And,  God  helping  me,  I  will  keep  my  vow.” 

“  November  18. — Everything  is  settled.  We  are  to  be 
married  in  two  weeks.  I  can  hardly  realize  that  so  much 
happiness  is  to  be  mine. 

“  One  thing  troubles  me;  I  seem  to  make  little  headway 
in  winning  the  confidence  of  my  bride-elect.  She  is  gentle, 
but  so  cold. 

“I  know  my  own  disposition,  how  capable  it  is  of  being 
irritated  by  persistent  opposition  and  dislike;  that  the  very 
strength  of  my  affections  makes  it  all  the  harder  for  me  to 
endure  coldness  and  indifference  from  any  one  I  love. 

But  why  should  I  anticipate  trouble?  She  is  gentleness 
itself,  and  when  she  is  once  altogether  mine  I  shall  be  able 
to  win  her  heart.  Love  so  true  and  tender  as  mine  cannot 
fail  to  meet  with  some  response.” 

December  3. — Yesterday  was  my  wedding-day — the  hap¬ 
piest  day  of  my  life,  and  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many 
just  as  happy. 

“Never  did  I  see  my  darling  look  so  lovely  as  when  she 
stood  at  the  altar.  I  have  had  a  picture  taken  of  her,  at- 


so 


A  WIFK'S  CRIME. 


tired  just  as  she  was  then,  so  that  our  children  can  see  how 
their  mother  looked  on  her  wedding-day.  In  a  few  hours 
we  start  on  our  bridal  tour;  so  adieu,  dear  old  journal,  for 
the  present.'” 

January  3. -—Home  again,  and  not  at  all  sorry  to  get  back. 
Didn’t  enjoy  the  trip  quite  so  well  as  I  expected.  We  hur¬ 
ried  about  so  much — my  wife  and  I— seeing  so  many  new 
things  and  people,  that  we  had  no  time  to  be  much  to¬ 
gether,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  So  that  I  am  no 
more  acquainted  with  my  darling  than  I  was  before — some¬ 
times  it  seems  less  so. 

“  But  all  this  will  be  changed,  now  that  we  are  at  home, 
our  home,  under  the  same  roof,  with  every  opportunity  of 
understanding  and  growing  nearer  to  each  other. 

“  I  never  knew  before  the  pleasure  of  having  wealth  at 
my  command.  At  my  wife’s  request  I  have  taken  a  house 
in  the  city,  newly  furnishing  it  throughout.  I  have  spared 
neither  pains  nor  expense  to  make  it  a  fitting  nest  for  my 
bird,  consulting  her  taste  in  everything.  I  never  knew 
Geraldine  to  be  so  much  pleased  with  anything.  She 
looked  so  charming  in  her  excitement  and  animation, 
thanking  me  so  prettily  for  my  attention  to  her  wishes, 
that  I  took  the  courage  to  ask  her  for  a  kiss. 

“  She  gave  it  to  me,  but — God  forgive  me  if  I  wrong  her 
— more  as  if  it  was  a  debt  that  was  due  than  if  she  cared  to 
do  so.” 

“  February  2. — I  never  dreamed  that  Geraldine  was  so 
fond  of  society  and  admiration.  She  lives  in  one  constant 
whirl  of  excitement,  seldom  spending  an  evening  at  home, 
except  when  she  has  company.  She  pays  no  attention  to 
my  expostulations,  seeming  to  care  nothing  for  her  home 
or  husband. 

“All  this  is  very  hard,  but  I  must  be  patient  with  her — 
so  far  as  I  can  be.  There  is  only  one  thing  certain,  that  if 
I  lose  patience  at  all  it  will  be  entirely.  If  I  allow  myself 
to  speak  it  will  be  so  harshly  that  it  will  erect  a  still  more 
impassable  barrier  between  us.  It  is  not  in  me  to  do  any¬ 
thing  half-way.” 

“  March  4. — In  spite  of  my  disapproval,  manifested  in 
many  ways,  Geraldine’s  gay  life  continues.  We  have  had 
words  more  than  once,  on  my  part  harsh  and  stern,  as  it 
is  my  nature  to  be  when  roused,  on  her  part  so  cold  and 
indifferent  that  they  stung  me  nearly  to  madness. 

“She  accuses  me  of  playing  the  tyrant,  of  wishing  to  de¬ 
prive  her  of  all  the  enjoyment  that  life  has  for  her. 

“I  know  that  my  heart  is  slowly  but  surely  hardening 
against  her,  but  it  is  her  work,  not  mine. 

“God  knows  how  all  this  will  end.” 

Geraldine  had  read  with  such  breathless  interest  thia 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


31 


Strange,  and  to  her,  now,  most  sad  revelation  of  the  heart 
that  had  been  a  sealed  book  to  her  so  long — who  should 
have  known  it  best  and  prized  it  most — that  she  had  been 
unmindful  of  the  flight  of  time. 

As  she  read  the  last  sentence,  her  eyes  were  suddenly 
blinded  by  the  remorseful  tears  that  were  now  falling  fast. 

“  God  knows  how  all  this  will  end !” 

Though  it  might  be  hidden  from  every  mortal  eye,  she 
knew  how  it  all  had  ended. 

What  tears,  though  they  might  flow  “like  a  river, ’’could 
fever  wash  away  a  guilt  like  hers,  or  make  those  soft,  fair 
hands  white  again? 

Hearing  Bridget’s  step  upon  the  tairs,  together  with  the 
prattling  sound  of  the  baby  in  her  arms,  Geraldine  thrust 
the  book  back  into  the  desk,  and,  hastily  closing  it,  un¬ 
bolted  the  door. 

The  kind-hearted  girl  saw  the  trace  of  tears  on  her  mis¬ 
tress’  cheek,  and  ascribing  it  to  only  one  cause,  said: 

“  Sure,  an’  I  wudn’t  be  afther  frettin’  fur  the  masther, 
ma’am ;  he’ll  not  coom  to  any  harm.  Somethin’s  tuck  him 
away  onexpicted.  He’ll  be  here  the  day.” 

Making  no  reply  to  words  intended  to  be  consolatory, 
but  whose  effect  was  so  different,  Geraldine  took  the  babe 
that  sprung  to  her  arms,  and  going  to  an  obscure  corner 
of  the  room,  where  her  tears  could  fall  unnoticed,  sat  list¬ 
ening  to  the  sharp  reproaches  of  the  suddenly- awakened 
conscience  that  had  slumbered  so  long. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

REMORSE  THAT  CAME  TOO  LATE. 

Knowing  what  was  to  be  done  that  night,  and  how  nec¬ 
essary  it  was  that  there  should  be  no  one  to  watch  or  hin¬ 
der,  Geraldine  decided  to  have  an  early  supper,  so  that  she 
might  count  on  the  house  being  still. 

“Did  you  see  Prue  making  any  preparations  for  supper 
as  you  came  by?”  she  said  to  Bridget,  as  she  laid  the  sleep¬ 
ing  child  in  its  cradle.  “I  want  mine  early  to-night.” 

“Faith,  an’  I  did;  an’  it’s  somethin’  mighty  noice,  too, 
be  the  smell  av  it.  Hot  corn  cakes,  I’m  thin  kin’ — pones, 
she  calls  ’em — made  with  eggs  an’  crame.  Sure,  an’  she’s 
an  illegant  cook ;  I’ll  say  that  mooch  fur  her.  Give  ould 
Nick  his  due,  an’  hiven  the  glory!” 

As  heavy  as  Geraldine’s  heart  was,  she  could  not  forbear 
a  faint  smile  at  Bridget’s  emphatic  and  rather  peculiar  way 
of  expressing  herself. 

Supper  being  brought,  it  was  dispatched  very  quickly  so 
far  as  Geraldine  was  concerned,  Bridget  being  the  only 
9»e  that  did  full  justice  to  the  tempting  article  she  do 


83 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


scribed  so  eloquently,  lifer  appetite  being  one  of  the  kind 
that  seems  “to  grow  by  what  it  feeds  on.” 

Geraldine  had  always  had  Isabel  sleep  in  a  little  crib 
beside  her  own  bed.  Now  she  said : 

“  I  think  I  will  let  baby  sleep  in  the  nursery  with  you 
to-night,  Bridget.  I  am  so  restless  that  I  think  it  will  be 
better  for  both.  You  mustn’t  mind  if  you  hear  me 
walking  about  in  the  night,  my  good  girl;  it’s  a  way  I 
have  lately.” 

“  Sure,  an’  I  won’t  moind  it,  ma’am,  or  hear  it,  aither, 
for  that  mather.  I  shall  go  to  slape  as  soon  as  me  head 
touches  the  pillow,  an’  it’ll  take  a  dale  more  nor  that  to 
wake  me.” 

Geraldine  was  not  sorry  to  hear  this,  as  it  tended  to  make 
what  she  had  to  do  more  safe  and  easy. 

As  Bridget  was  up  betimes,  she  retired  early,  being 
sound  asleep  by  nine  o’clock,  as  her  heavy  breathing 
showed. 

Having  ascertained,  by  personal  investigation,  that  little 
Isabel  was  sleeping  quite  as  peacefully,  Geraldine  went  to 
her  own  room,  bolting  the  door. 

There  being  yet  three  hours  to  midnight,  she  resumed 
the  reading  of  her  husband’s  diary,  which  seemed  to  have 
a  strange  fascination  to  her. 

The  entry  following  the  one  last  read  ran  thus : 

“  March  28. — I  can  endure  this  iife  no  longer.  For  the 
last  two  weeks  I  have  escorted  Geraldine  every  evening  to 
the  gay  scenes  that  are  so  distasteful  to  me — she  is  far  too 
young  and  beautiful  to  go  alone — only  to  see  her  lavish 
upon  others  the  smiles  and  pleasant  words  that  she  denies 
to  me. 

“  I  know  what  I  will  do.  She  shall  know  me  as  master 
of  the  home,  of  which  she  disdains  to  be  mistress,  in  any 
true  sense  of  the  word.  I  will  sell  my  house  here,  and  go 
into  the  country,  where  solitude  and  rt  Section  may 
humble  if  not  teach  her  something  of  the  duty  she  owes 
me.” 

It  was  painful  to  note  the  change  that  was  slowly  going 
on  in  the  heart  of  the  writer,  and  against  which  he  seemed 
to  struggle,  though  vainly. 

He  no  longer  called  her  his  “darling,”  or  praised  her 
gentleness  and  beauty.  It  was  a  dark  record  of  love, 
chilled  by  indifference,  imbittered  by  jealousy,  and  turn¬ 
ing  into  a  sharp  sword  to  pierce  the  heart  of  both. 

But  still  Geraldine  read  on,  her  heart  faint  and  sick  with 
a  sorrow  and  remorse  that  came  too  late. 

“  April  20. — I  have  carried  into  effect  my  resolution,  and 
we  have  been  two  weeks  in  our  new  home.  Things  remaip 


A  WTFjs'S  CRIME .  83 

touch  as  they  have  been — I  am  changing  fast  enough,  and 
it  is  all  her  work. 

“She called  me  a  tyrant  yesterday.  Let  her  beware; 
that  prophecy  may  come  true.  1  feel  it  in  me  to  be  such 
— hard,  cruel  and  pitiless. 

4  4 1  can  see  that  she  is  beginning  to  fear  me ;  taking  a  curi¬ 
ous  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  knowledge.  It  is  a  satisfaction 
to  be  able  to  influence  her  in  any  way. 

“  One  thing  is  certain — I  will  never  again  be  a  suppliant; 
for  her  love,  though  I  shall  take  good  care  that  she  has  no 
opportunity  to  lavish  her  smiles  on  any  one  else.” 

Here  followed  a  silence  of  three  months. 

“  July  10. — A  new  hope  has  dawned  upon  me.  In  a  few 
months  I  shall  be  a  father.  Surely  no  woman,  with  a 
woman’s  heart  in  her  bosom,  can  fail  to  have  some  consid¬ 
eration,  some  tenderness  for  the  father  of  her  child  ?  Per¬ 
haps  this  new  tie — that  which  will  be  neither  hers  nor 
mine,  but  ours — will  bring  our  hearts,  in  some  degree, 
nearer  to  each  other.  God  grant  it.” 

‘  ‘ December  9. — My  first-born  son  has  been  laid  in  my  arms. 
He  is  like  his  mother,  having  her  dark  eyes  and  jetty  hair, 
and  is  a  most  lovely  boy.  Will  his  advent  bring  any  sun¬ 
shine  into  my  dark  and  wretched  life?” 

“February  28. — My  boy  is  growing  daily  in  intelligence 
and  beauty.  Geraldine  is  devoted  to  him,  seeming  only  to 
live  in  his  presence.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  affection  that 
speaks  so  eloquently  in  every  word  and  look. 

“But,  alas!  alas!  it  has  brought  no  softening  of  her 
heart  toward  me,  his  father. 

“  Is  it  my  fault,  I  wonder?  Perhaps  it  is.  My  feelings 
have  been  so  often  chilled  and  thrown  back  upon  my 
heart,  that  I  cannot  act  as  I  would.  I  can  only  stand 
aloof,  with  lowering  brow  and  heart  torn  with  love  and 
jealousy,  feeling  that  it  is  something  in  which  I  have  no 
part. 

“  But  there  is  one  good  result.  She  is  more  contented, 
no  longfr  reproaching  me  for  immuring  her  away  from 
all  society.” 

“  June  3. — Yesterday  I  stood  upon  the  portico,  looking 
through  the  open  window  upon  my  child,  and  my  child’s 
mother,  unnoticed  by  either.  I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 
in  my  life,  or  a  lovelier  look  in  Geraldine’s  face  as  she  sat 
there  smiling  upon  the  boy  that  was  prattling  on  her  knee, 
As  I  gazed,  all  the  old  love  came  back,  and  I  felt  that  I 
would  be  content  to  die  to  win  one  such  look,  one  such 
smile. 

“In  my  eager  intentness  my  arm  brushed  the  vine  that 
partially  shaded  the  window,  and  Geraldine  glanced  up, 


A  WIFE '8  CRIME. 


84 

the  expression  of  it  changing  so,  as  her  eye  met  mine,  that 
it  hardly  seemed  like  the  same  face. 

“  Never  did  I  feel  how  utterly  useless  it  was  to  hope  to 
be  anything  more  to  her  than  I  am.” 

For  several  months  the  entries  made,  from  time  to  time, 
were  of  the  same  tenor,  betraying  the  gloom  and  bitterness 
that  were  sinking  down  heavier  and  heavier  upon  his 
heart. 

Then  came  the  following: 

“  March  15 — We  have  had  a  terrible  scene,  during  which 
Geraldine  has  spoken  words  that  I  hardly  dared  trust  my¬ 
self  to  look  back  upon. 

“It  seems  that  her  brothers  deceived  her  in  regard  to 
her  lover’s  death — that  he  is  still  living.  She  accuses  me 
of  being  a  party  to  the  deception. 

“I  think  my  words  and  manner  convinced  her  that  I 
had  no  part  in  it.  But  can  I  ever  forget  the  words  she 
uttered,  4  that  she  loved  this  man  now,  and  should  love 
him  always.’  ” 

“  False  wife  ana  mother!  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  re¬ 
strained  myself  from  striking  her  to  the  floor. 

“  She  once  called  me  ‘her  jailer.’  I  will  be  that  to  her, 
if  nothing  else.  And  she  will  find  me  a  vigilant  one.  She 
shall  never  leave  Hunter’s  Lodge  while  I  live,  and  I  will 
keep  a  strict  watch  over  all  her  movements.” 

Six  months  later,  August  20,  he  chronicled  the  birth  of 
his  baby-girl,  but  with  no  emotion  of  hope  or  joy. 

“  September  28. — I  have  been  absent  for  the  last  two 
weeks.  Prue,  my  faithful  old  nurse,  has  strange  news  for 
me.  She  says  that  my  wife  has  been  meeting  a  man 
down  by  the  river.  Swears  that  it  is  the  same  one  that 
she  saw  prowling  about  early  last  spring. 

‘ 4  Battle  corroborates  her  statement. 

“  My  brain  seems  on  fire  with  the  horrible  suggestions  to 
which  this  gives  rise,  and  there  are  times  when  I  find  it  hard 
to  resist  the  impulses  that  come  over  me.  But  no,  no; 
however  ill  she  may  have  treated  me,  however  hard  I  may 
be,  I  will  be  just.  I  will  trust  to  no  hearsay  evidence,  i 
will  know  if  this  shameful  thing  be  so  with  my  own  eyes. 

“  If  it  be  true,  God  have  mercy  on  them  both,  for  I  will 
show  none  1 

“  I  will  make  as  though  I  was  going  away  again,  but  stay 
home  and  watch.” 

The  next  entry  bore  no  date,  but  was  probably  written 
the  day  after,  being  so  blotted  as  to  be  hardly  legible. 

‘  ‘  It  was,  it  is  true — and  oh !  if  that  were  all.  The  sun 
shines  upon  me  to-day,  not  only  a  dishonored  husband,  bnt 
$  murderer!  * 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“I  saw  him  with  his  arms  around  her,  his  kiss  upon  her 
lips,  and  my  brain  went  wild. 

“  Clutching  the  dagger  that  was  destined  to  find  that 
black  and  treacherous  heart,  I  followed  him. 

‘  1  took  from  his  lifeless  oody  a  letter  that  she  wrote— 
full  of  love  for  him,  and  detestation  for  me,  her  husband — 
whose  greatest  sin  until  now  has  been  in  loving  her  too 
well,  whose  heaviest  misfortune  it  is  that  he  ever  saw  her. 

“  I  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  she  has  been  my  curse 
and  ruin,  here  and  hereafter !  And  may  the  knowledge  of 
it  pursue  her  through  life  and  haunt  her  dying  pillow !” 

Geraldine  could  endure  no  more. 

Uttering  a  smothered  cry  of  horror,  she  threw  herself 
forward  upon  her  face,  that  terrible  curse  still  ringing  in 
her  ears. 

As  in  a  mirror,  it  all  rose  up  before  her;  the  selfishness 
that  could  see  no  wrongs  or  sorrows  but  her  own,  the  blind¬ 
ness  and  perversity  that  had  called  forth  the  demon  in  her 
husband’s  heart,  making  him  all  that  he  was. 

She  remembered  that,  however  hard  and  harsh  of  late 
years,  there  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  not  been  so;  that 
in  the  first  months  of  their  marriage  no  man  could  be  more 
tender  and  loving  than  he. 

in  the  light  of  these  revelations,  how  black  her  sin  looked. 
Would  she  ever  be  able  to  atone? 

As  she  lay  thus,  with  her  forehead  in  the  dust,  the  clock 
in  the  hall  below  struck  the  hour  of  midnight,  bringing  to 
mind  the  work  that  was  before  her,  and  which  must  be 
done  now  or  never. 

As  the  last  stroke,  sounding  so  distinctly  in  the  silence, 
died  upon  the  air,  pale  but  resolute,  Geraldine  arose. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TWO  MIDNIGHT  VISITS. 

Having  forgotten  to  take  the  precaution  of  procuring  a 
dark  lantern,  Geraldine  decided  that  it  would  be  safer  for 
her  not  to  light  her  candle  until  she  came  to  the  narrow 
passage  underground,  and  which  led  to  the  secret  chamber. 

She  attired  herself  in  a  large  cloak,  which  had  a  hood 
attached  to  it,  the  latter  partially  hiding  the  face  without 
obscuring  too  much  of  the  vir-ion. 

After  pausing  by  the  nursery  door,  to  see  if  Bridget  was 
still  sleeping,  and  being  reassured  by  her  heavy  breathing, 
Geraldine  took  her  way  down-stairs,  moving  slowly  and 
cautiously  along,  eye  and  ear  on  the  alert,  lest  she  should 
be  watched  and  followed. 

She  found  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  steep,  narrow 
stairs,  that  she  remembered  so  well  mounting  on  that 


36  A  WIFE 'S  CRIME. 

never-to-be-forgotten  morning,  and  which  led  to  the  subteiS 
ranean  passage. 

She  had  had  the  faint  light  of  the  moon  to  guide  her 
above,  she  was  now  plunged  into  a  darkness  so  intense  that 
she  could  almost  feel  it. 

Feeling  that  she  was  going  in  the  right  direction,  and 
that  it  would  be  safer  for  her  to  defer  striking  a  light  as 
long  as  possible,  Geraldine  groped  her  way  along,  her  heart 
beating  faster  and  faster,  with  the  strange  terror  there  as 
she  neared  the  end  of  her  journey. 

Taking  the  key  from  her  bosom,  she  was  about  to  strike 
a  light,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  step. 

Turning  her  eyes  in  the  direction  whence  she  had  come, 
she  saw  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  light. 

Fortunately  she  was  opposite  a  small  recess,  formed  by  a 
turn  in  the  wall,  and  throwing  herself  down  upon  her 
knees  in  one  corner  of  it,  she  contracted  herself  into  as 
small  a  compass  as  possible,  awaiting  in  trembling  sus¬ 
pense  the  approach  of  the  footsteps,  and  which  drew  nearer 
and  nearer. 

They  came  opposite  the  place  where  she  crouched— 
passed  it. 

Whatever  it  was,  it  carried  a  bunch  of  keys.  Geraldine 
could  hear  it  jingle  with  every  step. 

As  she  expected,  feared,  it  paused  in  front  of  the  door  of 
the  cell,  which  was  only  a  short  distance. 

Cautiously  raising  her  head,  Geraldine  listened,  fixing 
her  eyes  intently  upon  the  faint  light,  which,  streaming 
out  upon  the  darkness,  served  to  make  it  more  visible. 

She  heard  the  door  tried,  and  then  shook  witRa  vigorous 
hand. 

Then  a  familiar  voice  said : 

“  Be  you  in  there,  Marse  Robert?” 

Here  the  speaker  gave  another  violent  shake  to  the  door. 

“  It’s  me,  Prue,  your  old  nurse.” 

Forgetting  everything  else  in  her  terror  and  alarm,  Ger¬ 
aldine  listened  breathlessly,  almost  expecting  to  hear  some 
reply.  But  not  a  sound  broke  the  profound  hush  that  fol¬ 
lowed. 

Then  she  heard  Prue  trying  to  turn  the  lock  by  means  of 
the  keys  she  brought,  a  muttered  word  of  impatience 
heralding  each  and  every  failure. 

Evidently  despairing  of  effecting  an  entrance,  with  slow 
and  reluctant  steps  the  old  colored  woman  began  to  retrace 
her  steps,  muttering : 

“Somethin’s  wrong,  an’  she's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  If 
Rattle  was  only  here.” 

Geraldine  pressed  herself  closely  against  the  wall,  Prue 
passing  so  near  to  the  place  where  she  was  secreted,  1 J ».  t 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


3? 


had  not  her  eyes  been  dimmed  with  age  she  could  not  have 
failed  to  see  the  dark  figure  that  crouched  there. 

As  it  was,  Prue  passed  along,  muttering,  and  shaking 
the  bunch  of  keys  viciously  as  she  went. 

After  waiting  until  the  last  faint  footfall  had  died  in  the 
distance,  Geraldine  arose,  glad  enough  to  be  released  from 
her  constrained  position. 

Having  no  fears  of  Prue’s  return,  at  least  that  night,  she 
stooped  for  the  key  that  she  had  dropped  in  her  trepida¬ 
tion  when  she  first  heard  her  approach,  but  was  unable  to 
find  it. 

Lighting  the  candle,  she  found,  to  her  astonishment,  the 
place  on  which  she  was  standing  to  be  solid  rock. 

Near  the  wall,  in  the  corner,  where  she  had  hidden  from 
old  Prue,  was  a  deep  fissure  or  crack  in  it.  On  putting  her 
ear  down  to  this,  she  heard  the  rush  of  water  hundreds  of 
feet  below. 

As  the  key  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  the  conviction 
pressed  strongly  upon  Geraldine’s  mind  that  it  had  fallen 
down  this  place.  She  remembered  hearing  a  peculiar 
sound  in  corroboration  of  this,  though  she  was  too  terrified 
to  take  any  note  of  it  at  the  time. 

After  another  careful  search,  so  as  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  not  where  it  would  fall  into  the  hands  of  any  one  else, 
Geraldine  retraced  her  way  back,  reaching  her  own  room 
without  meeting  any  one,  or  being  missed. 

After  divesting  herself  of  her  cloak  and  slipping  on  a 
loose  white  wrapper,  she  went  into  the  nursery,  where  she 
found  Isabel  quietly  sleeping,  and  Bridget  in  the  same 
deep,  unbroken  slumber. 

Returning  to  her  own  room,  Geraldine  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed,  so  utterly  exhausted  in  both  body  and  mind 
that  she  fell  asleep  almost  immediately. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
into  her  room,  and  so  heavily  had  she  slept,  that  she  felt 
more  like  one  that  had  been  aroused  from  death  than  ordi¬ 
nary  slumber. 

As  all  the  wretched  past  and  dreary  present  rose  up  be¬ 
fore  her,  she  closed  her  eyes,  with  the  wish  uppermost  in 
her  mind  that  she  might  never  open  them  again. 

But  the  prattling  sound  of  her  baby  in  the  adjoining  room 
brought  other  and  better  thoughts. 

During  all  the  time  she  was  dressing,  Geraldine’s  thoughts 
were  busy. 

How  much  Prue  knew  it  was  impossible  to  say,  but  that 
she  knew  something  of  her  trouble  with  her  husband  was 
evident. 

She  recalled  the  old  woman’s  evident  surprise  at  her  sud- 


88 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


den  return,  and  wliich  pointed  strongly  to  the  suspicion 
tnat  she  knew  of  her  incarceration  in  the  cell  below. 

Why  did  she  go  down  there,  as  though  she  had  expected 
to  find  her  master  inside  of  those  stone  walls,  calling  upon 
him  so  strangely  ? 

Could  it  be  that  she  knew  of  his  going  there  on  that 
fatal  morning,  from  whence  he  never  came  out  alive? 

After  breakfast  Geraldine  was  sitting  in  her  room,  with 
little  Isabel  on  her  knee. 

The  open  doorway  leading  into  the  hall  suddenly  darken¬ 
ing,  she  glanced  up,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  dark  object 
that  stood  there,  regarding  her  with  a  look  quite  as  dark  as 
herself. 

As  long  as  Geraldine  had  been  at  Hunter’s  Lodge,  Prue 
had  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  room,  and  even  now 
she  took  good  care  not  to  do  so. 

Prue’s  words  were  quite  as  abrupt  and  startling  as  her 

appearance. 

“  Whar’s  the  key  to  the  room  in  the  suller?” 

“The  room  in  the  cellar?”  repeated  Geraldine,  more  to 
gain  time,  than  because  she  failed  to  understand,  or  had 
any  expectation  of  deceiving  the  sharp-witted  old  woman. 
“  What  a  strange  question  to  ask  me.'' 

“It  ain’t  strange  at  all.  It’s  the  very  question  any- 
body’d  ask  that  had  the  leastest  hope  of  gettin’  a  straight 
answer.” 

Determined  to  force  her  opponent  to  show  her  hand, 
Geraldine  now  turned  suddenly  upon  her. 

“  What  do  you  know  about  that  room?” 

“  Not  so  much  as  you  do,”  was  the  grim  response,  “  as  I 
h  ain’t  never  sot  foot  in  it  yet.” 

Geraldine’s  face  paled  a  little ;  it  was  all  out  now.  Not 
that  she  was  sorry  to  know  just  how  little  she  had  to  hope 
from  that  quarter,  how  much  to  fear. 

Reluctant  as  she  was  to  discuss  the  matter,  she  went  on: 

“What  should  I  know  about  it?  Do  you  know  of  any 
one  ever  being  so  wronged  as  to  be  made  a  prisoner  there?” 

Prue  flung  her  arms  aloft  with  a  dissenting  and  scornful 
gesture. 

‘  ‘  You  wronged  ?  Marse  Robert  was  the  las’  of  ol’  mars’r’s 
chil’un.  Mis’ us  put  him  in  my  arms  when  he  warn’t  more’n 
a  day  ol’,  an’  I  nussed  him  last  an’  loved  him  best.  I’ve 
knowed  him,  baby,  boy,  an’  man,  an’  nobody  couldn't 
know  him  better.  I  knowed  well’nough  what  was  in  him 
when  his  blood  was  up,  an’  how  hard  he  could  be  with  them 
that  wronged  him.  But  it  was  never  fur  nothin’  with  them 
as  was  his  friends ;  he  alters  had  the  lovinest  heart  an’  the 
sweetest  temper.  I  knowed  what  he  was  afore  he  met 
you,  with  a  merry  word  an’  smile  fur  everybody.  1 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


89 

knowed  wliat  he  was  arterward.  I  see  a  change  a-creepin’ 
over  liim,  an’  your  hand  in  it  all.  Many’s  the  time  I’s  seen 
him  ride  pas’  the  pantry  winder  as  ef  pursued  by  devils, 
an’  knowed  you’d  had  words  together,  an’  that  you  was 
drivin’  him  to  destruction  as  fas’  as  you  could.” 

Pale  as  death,  Geraldine  arose,  ana  placing  Isabel  in  the 
arms  of  the  wondering  Bridget,  signed  her  to  leave  the 
room. 

“  What  else  do  you  know?” 

Stretching  out  her  long,  dark  arm  with  an  accusing 
gesture,  Prue  continued: 

“  I  knowed  you  to  be  the  falsest  of  all  false  wives;  I’s 
seen  him,  who  come  prowlin’  ’bout  the  place,  an’  knowed 
what  he  come  for.  I’s  seen  you  creepin’  out  of  the  house 
at  night,  and  knowed  what  you  went  fur.  ” 

Is  that  all?” 

“No.  I’s  knowed  all  that’s  happened  since — ’cept  whar 
he  is  gone  to.  Marse  Robert  telled  me  the  night  afore, 
that,  bad  as  you  was,  you  was  the  mother  of  his  boy,  an’ 
he  wouldn’t  harm  you.  That  he  was  goin’  to  take  ye  to 
yer  brother’s  the  next  mornin’,  an’  never  look  on  yer  face 
agin.  I’s  seen  him  the  next  mornin’,  just  as  ’twas  g ro  win’ 
light,  drivin’  the  carriage  to  the  door.  I  seen  him  go  into 
the  house,  but  never  seen  him  come  out,  though  I  was 
watchin’  so’s  to  see  ye  go.  I  seen  you,  a  few  hours  after, 
lookin’  an’  goin’  ’bout  as  if  nothin’  had  happened,  but  him 
I’s  seen,  never,  no  morel” 

Here  Prue  ceased,  her  words  ending  in  a  prolonged  wail, 
like  that  of  a  wild  animal  deprived  of  her  young. 

Geraldine  saw  at  a  glance  the  array  of  evidence  that  it 
was  in  the  speaker’s  power  to  bring  against  her,  feeling 
very  much  as  if  she  was  standing  upon  the  brink  of  some 
precipice,  and  where  a  careless  step  might  precipitate  her 
to  the  depths  below. 

Something  must  be  done  to  stave  off  this  danger,  if  no 
more. 

“  How  ridiculously  you  talk,  Prue.  Were  it  not  caused 
by  your  fondness  for  your  master,  I  should  be  seriously 
angry.  You  don’t  suppose  that  I’ve  made  way  with  a 
man,  so  much  larger  and  stronger  that  he  could  hold  me 
with  one  hand  if  he  tried?” 

This  evidently  staggered  Prue,  who  rolled  her  dark  eyes 
about,  displaying  the  whites  of  them  in  a  way  peculiar  to 
her  race. 

“  I  dunno  what  to  think.” 

“Of  course  you  can’t  think  /  have  had  any  hand  in  his 
disappearance,”  continued  Geraldine,  following  up  her  ad- 
vantage.  “  I  know  you  have  always  disliked  me,  and  per- 


40 


A  WIFE’S  CHIME. 


haps  not  without  some  reason ;  but  that  is  too  ridiculous  to 
be  seriously  entertained  for  a  moment.” 

It  seemed  so  on  the  face  of  it,  and  yet  the  old  woman 
looked  far  from  convinced. 

“  Whar  has  he  gone?” 

“Not  having  posted  me  as  to  his  movements,  I  couldn’t 
give  you  the  faintest  idea,”  responded  Geraldine,  resuming 
her  seat  by  the  window.  “  He  might  have  gone  to  various 
places.  He  wasn’t  in  the  habit  of  letting  me  know  whither 
he  was  going,  or  why.” 

“  ’Cause  you  never  cared  what  he  did,  or  anythin’  ’bout 
him,  ”  interposed  Prue,  who  always  resented  any  reflection 
upon  her  foster-child. 

‘  ‘  Oh,  I  dare  say  it  is  my  fault — in  your  eyes,  at  all 
events.  I  only  mentioned  the  fact.  You  know,  as  well  as 
I  do,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  going  away  just  as 
abruptly.” 

“  I  don’t  dispute  that  ’ar.  If  it  warn’t  fur  the  rest  that 
I  knowed  I  wouldn’t  think  strange  on’t,  nuther.  As  ’tis,  I 
think  it's  mighty  cur’us.” 

“When  your  master  comes,  perhaps  to-night,  to-mor¬ 
row,  or  the  day  after,  you’ll  laugh  at  all  these  foolish 
fancies.” 

Perhaps  it  was  Geraldine’s  conciliatory  and  pleasant 
tone,  and  which  she  had  never  condescended  to  use  before, 
but  Prue’s  face  did  not  brighten  at  this  cheering  prognosti¬ 
cation;  on  the  contrary,  it  darkened  with  a  suspicion 
that  she  did  not  know  how  to  put  into  words. 

“  If  I  laugh,  it'll  be  with  joy  at  seein’  him.  Not  that  I 
’spect  any  such  good  fortin’.  There’s  somethin’  happened, 
or  goin’  to  happen.  I  have  such  a  cur’us  feelin’  sometimes, 
as  ef  I  couldn’t  draw  my  bref,  an’  little  shivers  run  over 
me.  I  feel  as  ef  I  was  in  a  house  whar  somebody's  dead!” 

These  strange  words,  uttered  in  a  hollow,  sepulchral 
voice,  had  a  startling  effect  upon  Geraldine;  covering  her 
eyes  with  both  hands,  she  uttered  a  suppressed  scream. 

Evidently  taking  a  grim  satisfaction  in  this  result,  Prue 
continued : 

“  As  I  said  afore,  I  put  all  these  yer  things  together,  an’ 
they’s  mighty  cur’us.  This  is  why  I  axed  ye  fur  the  key. 
Ef  he  ain’t  thar,  thar  can’t  be  no  harm  in  lookin’.” 

Vexed  at  her  want  of  self-control,  and  the  inferences  that 
might  be  drawn  from  it,  Geraldine  now  said : 

“You  are  enough  to  give  one  a  fit  of  the  horrors,  Prue. 
Believe  me  or  not,  just  as  you  choose,  I  haven’t  the  key 
you  speak  of,  nor  do  I  know  where  it  is.” 

Geraldine  spoke  with  a  good  deal  of  decision,  looking  her 
accuser  steadily  in  the  eye. 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  41 

Apparently  unconvinced,  Prue  turned  sullenly  from  the 
door. 

“There’s  somethin’  wrong,  some’eres,  an’  I’ll  find  out 
what  ’tis  ’fore  I’m  many  days  older.” 

Prue  uttered  these  words  going  down  the  stairs,  but 
they  came  very  distinctly  to  Geraldine  through  the  open 
door-way,  and  shuddering  as  she  thought  of  her  lonely, 
defenseless  position,  she  again  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

“  Did  onybody  iver  hear  the  likes  av  that?”  was  Bridget’s 
indignant  ejaculation,  who  had  been  drawn  to  the  room  by 
her  mistress’  involuntary  cry,  and  was  unable  to  keep  si¬ 
lent  any  longer. 

“I  am  ridiculously  nervous,”  said  Geraldine,  forcing  a 
smile,  “  and  Prue  always  makes  me  more  so.” 

“  Sure,  an’  I  shud  think  she  wud,  ma’am.  It  made  me 
crape  all  over  to  hear  her  wild  talk.  Not  that  I  under¬ 
stand  onything,  but  that  she  nursed  the  masther  whin 
he  was  a  babby,  an’  wanted  you  to  give  her  the  kay  av  the 
suiter.  Sure,  an’  she  might  have  nursed  me  husband  and 
all  me  relations,  an’  I  wudn’t  put  up  with  her  imperdunce, 
so  I  wudn’t!” 

“She  isn’t  worth  minding,  Bridget.  She  talks  very 
wildly,  as  you  say.  In  fact,  I’ve  often  suspected,  of  late, 
that  her  mind  was  disordered.” 

Geraldine  was  in  that  state  of  mind  which  led  her  to  fear 
danger  where  she  had  cause  to  fear  it  least.  She  might 
have  dismissed  the  uneasy  feeling  at  her  heart,  lest 
Bridget’s  suspicions  had  been  aroused  by  Prue’s  strange 
words  and  manner,  had  she  known  how  little  credence  the 
girl  placed  upon  anything  she  said. 

“  To  think  av  her  axing  ye  for  the  kay  av  the  suller,” 
she  said, .  as  she  busied  herself  in  righting  the  room. 
“  Sure,  an’  it’s  drunk  or  crazy  she  is!” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TWO  UNWELCOME  ARRIVALS. 

Not  long  after  Geraldine’s  interview  with  old  Prue, 
there  came  the  hurried  tramp  of  horse’s  feet  along  the 
main  avenue  which  led  to  the  house. 

“  Who  is  it,  Bridget?”  inquired  Geraldine,  coming  to  the 
window  opening  out  upon  the  balcony  upon  which  the  girl 
stood,  and  who  had  uttered  an  exclamation,  apparently  of 
satisfaction  and  triumph. 

“Sure,  an’  I  thought  it  was  the  masther,  but  it  ain’t,” 
said  Bridget,  in  a  disappointed  tone,  who  honestly  believed 
that  her  mistress’  sadness  was  occasioned  solely  by  his  ab¬ 
sence. 


42 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


“It’s  a  tall,  dark  gintlemon.  Looks  like  a  furrener,” 
continued  Bridget,  whose  ideas  of  foreigners  were  consid¬ 
erably  mixed,  by  no  means  putting  herself  down  in  the 
same  category. 

Stepping  out  upon  the  balcony,  Geraldine  peered  through 
the  vines  at  the  new-comer,  who  had  flung  himself  from 
his  horse  and  was  now  standing  beside  the  panting  animal, 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  hardly  driven. 

“  It  is  my  brother.” 

Geraldine  spoke  quietly,  but  with  the  absence  of  the 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  so  natural  under  the  circum¬ 
stances,  adding,  a  moment  later: 

“You  can  take  baby  down- stairs,  Bridget;  my  brother 
is  not  very  fond  of  children.” 

“  Nor  very  fond  of  onybody,  I’m  thinkin’,”  was  the  girl’s 
shrewd  reflection,  as  she  passed  Gaspardo  on  the  stairs, 
on  his  way  to  his  sister’s  room,  and  whose  lowering  brow 
indicated  that  he  was  in  anything  but  a  pleas  nt  mood. 
“  It’s  aisy  seen  that  he’s  one  of  thim  that’s  fondest  of  him¬ 
self.” 

Gaspardo  was  the  oldest  and  least  loved  of  Geraldine’s 
brothers.  Her  chief  incentive  in  marrying  was  to  escape 
his  harsh  rule,  who  had  been  her  terror  from  childhood, 
nor  did  he  make  any  attempt  to  disguise  his  satisfaction 
at  having  “  got  her  off  his  hands,”  as  he  called  it. 

So  there  was  no  pretense  of  anything  more  than  the  most 
formal  greeting  between  the  brother  and  sister  as  they 
met. 

“Where  is  Mr.  Bayard?” 

That  she  was  forced  to  hear  so  many  times  so  very  nat¬ 
ural  a  query,  was  not  the  least  of  the  sufferings  of  this  un¬ 
happy  lady,  and  she  was  so  long  in  replying  that,  frowning 
impatiently,  Gaspardo  was  about  to  repeat  his  question 
when  the  answer  came. 

“  He  is  gone.  I  cannot  tell  you  where.” 

“  Strange,  very  strange!” 

For  the  first  time,  Geraldine  fixed  her  eyes  full  upon  the 
speaker’s  face,  which  had  a  disturbed  look. 

“I  don't  consider  it  anything  strange.  He  is  in  the 
habit  of  going  away  just  as  abruptly,  and  without  telling 
me  where.” 

“  I  don’t  mean  his  going,  but  his  sending  me  the  note  he 
did.” 

“Note?”  responded  Geraldine,  faintly,  and  with  sinking 
heart. 

“  Yes.  Appointing  an  interview  with  Pedro  and  myself, 
at  Eagle’s  Nest,  yesterday  morning.” 

Geraldine  drew  a  long  breath  as  though  the  weight  was 
lifted  a  little  from  her  heart. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


43 


“Was  that  all  that  it  contained?” 

“  That  was  all  that  it  said.  It  implied  more.  In  fact,  it 
was  so  mysteriously  worded,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
either  Pedro  or  me  to  discover  what  it  meant,  especially  as 
he  failed  to  keep  his  appointment.  We  both  stayed  in  all 
day,  waiting  for  you.” 

“For  me?”  repeated  Geraldine,  again  taking  the  alarm. 
“Did  you  expect  me  to  come  with  him?” 

“That  is  what  the  note  says.  You  can  judge  for  your¬ 
self,”  replied  Gaspardo,  tossing  it  into  her  lap. 

Picking  it  up,  with  cold,  unsteady  fingers,  Geraldine 
read,  through  the  mist  that  floated  before  her  eyes,  what 
were  probably  the  last  lines  her  husband  ever  wrote. 

It  was  dated  the  evening  previous  to  that  fatal  morning 
— the  last  morning  of  his  life,  and  was  as  follows: 

“  I  shall  be  at  Eagle’s  Nest  at  an  early  hour  to-morrow 
morning,  to  confer  with  yourself  and  brother  in  regard  to 
an  important  matter,  touching  the  honor  of  us  both. 

“Your  sister,  Geraldine,  and  her  last-born  child,  will 
come  with  me.  Robert  Bayard.” 

“  What  do  you  make  of  it?” 

Geraldine  did  not  dare  to  raise  her  eyes  to  those  of  the 
speaker,  still  keeping  them  fixed  on  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

“I  think  that  it  is  very  mysteriously  worded,  as  you 
say.” 

“I  don’t  need  to  be  told  that.  What  do  you  know  about 
it?” 

It  was  a  matter  of  scornful  surprise  to  Geraldine  later, 
that  she,  whose  hands  were  stained  with  so  dark  a  crime, 
should  feel  so  scrupulous  about  uttering  a  direct  falsehood 
to  cover  it.  But  the  crime  was  mainly  the  result  of  im¬ 
pulse,  while  the  habit  of  truthfulness  was  too  strongly  in¬ 
grained  in  her  character  to  be  easity  set  aside. 

So  there  was  considerable  hesitancy  and  constraint  in 
her  tone  and  manner,  as  she  said : 

“  I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Bayard  had  written,  or  made 
any  appointment  with  you,  either  for  myself  or  him.” 

Gaspardo’s  visible  impatience  now  broke  forth  in  words. 

“  Do  you  know  anything  about  it?” 

This  sharp,  impatient,  tone  acted  as  a  stimulus  to  those 
trembling  nerves ;  she  turned  her  eyes  steadily  upon  the 
speaker’s  face. 

“About  what?  I  heave  already  told  you  that  I  know 
nothing  about  the  writing  of  the  note,  or  the  appointment. 
What  more  do  you  want  to  know?” 

“Considerable  more  than  you  seem  inclined  to  tell  me,” 
was  the  grim  response:  “  but  I  mean  to  get  it  out  of  you 
for  all  that.” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


44 


Here  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  Prue,  who  rolled  her  eyes  in  a  very  mysterious 
manner  from  one  to  the  other. 

“Rattle  got  back.  He  want  to  see  Mr.  Gaspardo  ’fore 
he  goes ;  he  got  somethin’  ’ticular  to  tell  him  ’bout  Marse 
Robert.  ” 

Here  there  was  another  ominous  roll  of  the  eyes  upon 
Geraldine,  who,  as  she  felt  the  net  closing  around  her,  be¬ 
gan  to  rouse  herself  for  the  struggle,  well  knowing,  not 
only  that  the  odds  were  against  her,  but  all  that  defeat 
meant. 

“  Where  has  Rattle  been?”  inquired  Gaspardo. 

“  He  went  to  take  Marse  Lionel  ’way,  sah.” 

“  Master  Lionel !  Where  has  he  gone?” 

Prue  looked  at  Geraldine,  and  was  silent. 

Following  the  direction  of  those  eyes,  Gaspardo  now  ad¬ 
dressed  his  sister. 

“  Where  has  the  boy  gone,  Geraldine?” 

“  I  don’t  know.” 

That  sinister  face  had  a  still  darker  look. 

“  That  will  do,  Prue.  Tell  Rattle  that  I  will  see  him.  I 
have  some  business  to  transact  with  Mrs.  Bayard  first.” 

Old  Prue  chuckled  audibly  as  she  went  down  the  stairs. 

“Business?”  she  muttered.  “Yes,  yes;  it’ll  be  pretty 
black  business  for  her.  She  thought  she  got  froo  the 
woods  now  Marse  Robert  gone,  but  she’ll  find,  I  reckon, 
that  she  only  hopped  out  of  the  fryin’-pan  inter  the  fire.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

When  Gaspardo  resumed  his  seat,  after  Prue’s  departure, 
Geraldine  had  changed  her  position. 

When  her  brother  entered  she  bad  designedly  sat  with 
her  back  to  the  window;  now  she  was  sitting  by  it  in  order 
that  the  cool  breeze  that  came  through  it  might  assist  her 
in  recovering  from  the  slight" faintness  that  came  over  her. 

This  change  brought  the  light  full  upon  her  face. 

“  What’s  the  matter  with  you?” 

Startled  by  this  abrupt  query,  Geraldine  involuntarily 
raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  as  if  she  feared  that  some 
tell-tale  mark  there — like  that  of  Cain — had  betrayed  her. 

“The  matter?”  she  faltered. 

“  Yes.  You  look  as  if  you  had  had  some  serious  illness 
since  I  saw  you  last.” 

“I  have  never  been  very  strong  since  the  birth  of  my 
baby.” 

“It  is  not  that.  I  saw  you  less  than  three  weeks  ago, 
and  you  did  not  look  as  you  do  now.” 


A  WIFE 'S  CRIME . 


45 


There  was  not  the  faintest  gleam  of  pity  in  those  keen 
eyes  as  they  rested  on  Geraldine’s  face,  noting  all  the  change 
there.  They  looked  as  if  their  owner  were  engaged  on 
some  problem,  putting  this  and  that  together  in  the  hope  of 
solving  it. 

Perhaps  some  such  thought  was  suggested  to  Geraldine, 
for  there  was  a  little  curl  to  her  lip  as  she  said : 

“  I  never  knew  you  to  betray  so  much  brotherly  solici¬ 
tude  before.” 

In  the  impatient  lifting  of  Gaspardo’s  shoulder  there 
was  no  smalt  element  of  contempt. 

“If  I  have  any  solicitude,  it  is  for  the  family  honor,  and 
not  the  weak  feeling  to  which  you  allude.” 

Determined  to  know  the  full  extent  of  the  clanger  that 
menaced  her,  Geraldine  went  on : 

“And  who  is  endangering  that  important  thing,  in  your 
estimation,  the  family  honor?” 

“  You ! 

“It  is  useless  for  us  to  waste  any  more  time  in  skirmish¬ 
ing,”  continued  Gaspardo,  after  a  moment’s  pause.  “You 
have  been  acquainted  with  me  long  enough  to  know  that  I 
am  not  a  man  that  is  very  easily  deceived.  You  know 
something  of  the  nature  of  the  appointment  that  your 
husband  failed  to  keep,  and  it  is  useless  for  you  to  deny  it.” 

Cornered,  Geraldine  now  turned  upon  her  inquisitor. 

“  There  is  one  thing  that  I  deny,  and  that  is  your  right 
to  question  me.” 

There  was  a  complete  change  in  Gaspardo’s  look  and 
tone,  as  he  arose  to  his  feet. 

“  You  prefer,  then,  that  I  get  my  information  from  other 
sources?  Be  careful  /” 

These  words  sent  a  sudden  shiver  through  Geraldine’s 
veins,  but  she  had  sufficient  self-command  to  give  no  out¬ 
ward  token  of  the  terror  with  which  they  inspired  her. 

“  You  will  act  as  you  think  proper,  of  course.  I  thought, 
perhaps,  that  the  family  honor— I  make  no  mention  of  the 
family  affection  that  has  no  existence  in  your  heart — would 
prevent  your  taking  any  such  course  as  that.” 

Perhaps  if  Geraldine  had  foreseen  all  to  which  it  would 
eventually  lead,  she  would  have  refrained  from  appealing 
to  this  ruling  passion  of  her  brother’s  heart. 

It  acted  as  a  temporary  check,  however.  Resuming  his 
seat,  he  now  said : 

“  You  are  right.  I  have  to  deal  with  you  only;  and  I 
think  that  you  will  find  me  fully  equal  to  the  task.  Per¬ 
verse,  headstrong  girl !  knowing  me  as  you  do,  can  you, 
dare  you  defy  me?” 

“You  forget  that  I  am  a  girl  no  longer.  I  am  a  married 
woman,  and  in  no  way  subject  to  your  control.” 


46 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


“I  don’t  forget  thnt  I  discharged  my  duty  by  you,  as 
your  brother  and  the  head  of  the  family,  by  providing  you 
with  a  husband  much  too  good  for  you.  But  where  is  he?” 

Oh!  ghastly  object,  continually  resurrected,  forever 
haunting  her  with  its  white  face  and  glaring  eyes,  was 
this  question  never  to  cease? 

“  One  would  think,”  said  Geraldine,  with  a  visible  effort 
at  lightness  and  ease,  “  from  the  frequency  with  which 
this  question  is  asked  me,  that  I  was  supposed  to  keep  him 
under  lock  and  key.” 

Gaspardo  kept  his  wary  eyes  fixed  upon  the  speaker’s 
face,  his  brow  wearing  a  still  more  gloomy  frown. 

4 ‘  It  is  useless  for  you  to  try  to  deceive  me.  I  have  had 
my  eye  on  you  for  a  long  time,  my  lady.  I  knew  that  you 
were  bound  to  bring  trouble  on  yourself  and  disgrace  on 
our  family  if  you  could.  I  advised  your  husband  to  bring 
you  off  up  here,  hoping  to  avoid  it.’*  / 

“So  I  have  to  thank  you  for  that,  too!”  responded 
Geraldine,  with  white  and  quivering  lips.  “It  was  such 
a  kind,  brotherly  thing  in  you  to  seek  to  isolate  me  thus 
from  all  human  companionship — so  like  you  in  fact,  that 
I  wonder  that  I  didn’t  recognize  your  hand  in  it  before.” 

“  I  tried  to  save  you  from  ruin,”  was  the  stern  response, 
“but  I  have  only  deferred,  it  seems,  the  inevitable  result 
of  the  course  you  have  taken  ever  since  your  marriage. 
The  time  was  when  your  husband  was  blindly  and  foolishly 
devoted  to  you,  loving  you  with  a  tenderness  and  passion 
that  I  never  saw  equaled.  But  you  persistently  set  out, 
from  your  wedding  day,  to  do  all  you  could  to  imbitter 
and  alienate  his  heart,  making  your  home  all  that  you 
have  made  it.” 

There  was  sufficient  truth  in  this  reproach  to  send  it 
home  to  Geraldine’s  heart,  and  then  there  were  circum¬ 
stances  that  induced  her  to  be  more  tender  of  her  husband 
dead  than  she  had  ever  been  of  him  living. 

Those  flashing  eyes  softened  with  tears,  as  she  said: 

“The  greatest  wrong  I  ever  did  my  husband  was  to 
marry  him — and  whose  fault  was  this?  Yours!  You 
knew,  when  you  urged  him  upon  me,  that  I  had  no  love 
for  him — nay,  that  my  heart  was  already  won.  Who  told 
me  that  the  man  I  loved  was  dead,  when  you  knew  him  to 
be  living?  Who  made  my  home  so  wretched  that  I  was 
glad  to  get  out  of  it  on  any  terms?  You  /” 

“  I  neither  deny  nor  regret  the  part  I  acted  in  the  affair 
you  mention ;  so  you  need  get  up  no  heroics  on  that  score. 
I  did  my  best  to  prevent  your  disgracing  our  name  by 
marrying  a  needy  adventurer,  even  as  I  shall  do  my  best 
now  to  prevent  your  bringing  a  worse  disgrace  on  it.” 

“  You  speak  in  riddles.” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  47 

Gaspardo  surveyed  the  speaker  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence. 

“  You  understand  me,  I  think.  I  shall  have  lntle  diffi¬ 
culty  in  making  you  understand  me,  at  all  events.  You 
have  had  serious  trouble  with  your  husband?” 

Both  look  and  tone  were  interrogative.  Folding  her 
arms  tightly  over  her  rapidly-beating  heart,  Geraldine 
said : 

“  You  seem  to  be  so  well  posted  in  my  affairs,  knowing 
so  much  more  about  them  than  I  do,  that  it  would  be  pre¬ 
sumptuous  in  me  to  give  you  any  additional  information.” 

“  You  might  throw  light  on  some  dark  points,  however, 
not  only  saving  me  time  and  trouble,  but  earning  for  your¬ 
self  the  forbearance  that  you  will  be  likely  to  need.  Not 
that  I  suppose  you  will  do  it,  or  that  you.  need  suppose 
that  it  will  prove  any  hinderance  to  me  in  the  end.  I  am  not 
so  ignorant  as  you  think,  and  by  what  I  already  know  I  can 
easily  conjecture  the  rest.  I  know  who  has  been  lurking 
in  this  neighborhood  for  several  months  past.  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  you  have  had  stolen  inter¬ 
views  with  him.  Had  I  positive  knowledge  of  it,  your 
punishment  would  be  so  swift  and  sharp  as  to  give  you  no 
opportunity  to  bring  any  further  disgrace  upon  our  name. 
I  will  be  just,  but  I  warn  you  that  I  will  show  no  mercy,” 

There  was  a  faint  curl  to  Geraldine’s  lips  as  she  said: 

“  As  though  an y  one  that  knew  Lorenzo  Gaspardo  would 
expect  mercy  from  him.” 

Without  appearing  to  hear  this  taunt,  Gaspardo  con¬ 
tinued  : 

“  Whether  or  not  there  is  any  actual  guilt  on  your  part 
of  this,  I  am  convinced  that  you  have  designedly  driven 
vour  husband  wild  with  jealousy  in  the  hope  that  it  would 
lead  him  to  seek  a  divorce,  thus  leaving  you  free  to  marry 
your  lover.  But  you  may  be  sure  of  one  thing,  that  the 
day  of  your  marriage  will  be  the  day  of  your  death  and 
his.” 

Carefully  noting  Geraldine’s  sudden  start,  Gaspardo  went 
on: 

“  I  am  convinced,  furthermore,  that  the  appointment 
your  husband  made  with  me  was  to  consult  me  in  refer¬ 
ence  to  this  matter,  knowing  how  averse  I  would  be  to  any 

Eublic  exposure.  Why  he  failed  to  keep  it  I  do  not  know, 
ut  fear  that  it  is  because  he  has  decided  to  appeal  to  the 
law  for  redress.  If  this  be  so,  and  it  becomes  a  matter  of 
public  notoriety,  you  will  have  good  cause  to  wish  that  you 
had  never  been  born.” 

Geraldine  was  so  amazed  and  confounded  at  the  con¬ 
clusions  at  which  her  brother  had  arrived— conclusions  so 
uatural,  under  the  circumstances,  and  yet  so  wide  of  the 


43  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

mark — that  for  a  time  she  had  room  for  no  other  thought 
or  feeling. 

She  made  no  reply,  neither  did  her  brother  wait  for  any. 

Gaspardo  took  his  way  down-stairs,  proceeding  directly 
to  that  part  of  the  house  considered  by  Prue  as  her  especial 
province. 

The  old  woman  was  evidently  expecting  him,  though 
she  gave  no  token  of  it  save  by  the  additional  roll  to  the 
eyes,  and  which  brought  the  whites  of  them  so  prominently 
into  view. 

Gaspardo  glanced  impatiently  around. 

“  Where’s  Rattle?  I  thought  he  wanted  to  see  me.” 

44  He  had  to  go  down  town,  an’  couldn’t  wait,  sah.  Tol’ 
me  to  say  that  he’d  be  at  your  place  this  evenin’,  sah.” 

Gaspardo  looked  narrowly  at  the  speaker. 

“  You’ve  lived  with  Mr.  Bayard  a  good  many  years. 
Prue,  and  must  know  him  ana  his  affairs  as  well,  if  not 
better,  than  anybody  else.” 

The  faithful  old  creature  raised  a  corner  of  her  checked 
apron  to  her  eyes,  overcome  by  the  recollections  called 
forth  by  these  words,  together  with  the  fears  that  op¬ 
pressed  her. 

“  I  s  his  ol’  nuss,  sah,  and  thar’  ain’t  nobody  as  ever 
knowed  or  loved  him  better.  I  had  the  car’  of  all  ol’ 
mars’r’s  chil'un - ” 

“I  know,  I  know,”  interrupted  Gaspardo,  with  an  im¬ 
patient  wave  of  the  hand,  “  and  it  is  because  of  this  that  I 
thought  you  might  be  somewhat  in  his  confidence.  Do 
you  know  whether  Mr.  Bayard  and  his  wife  have  had  any 
trouble  lately?” 

Prue  rolled  her  eyes  upon  the  speaker,  and  then  around 
the  room,  with  the  mysterious  air  that  seemed  to  be 
habitual  to  her  of  late.  But  though  her  manner  indicated 
that  she  could  reveal  volumes  if  she  chose,  her  lips  were 
silent. 

With  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  that  black,  wrinkled  face, 
Gaspardo  went  on,  the  sullen  gloom  deepening  upon  his 
brow  as  he  did  so. 

4 ‘ It’s  no  mincing  matter;  things  have  gone  too  far  for 
that  now.  My  sister  and  her  husband  have  never  lived 
happily  together;  nor  am  I  the  man  to  deny,  because  she 
is  my  sister,  that  it  is  entirely  her  fault.  From  a  note  I 
received  from  Mr.  Bayard,  together  with  some  other  things 
that  have  come  to  my  knowledge,  I  am  convinced  that 
they  have  had  serious  trouble  of  late.  What  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  is,  if  you  know  the  nature  of  this  trouble,  where 
your  master  is  gone,  and  if  you  think  he  has  any  idea  of 
separating  from  his  wife?” 

Prue  was  in  no  way  loath  to  tell  Gaspardo  what  she 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME .  49 

knew  in  regard  to  these  points,  together  with  her  fears  and 
conjectures,  much  of  which  the  reader  already  knows. 

All  that  he  heard  tended  to  confirm  Gaspardo  in  the 
suspicion — a  terrible  one  to  him— that  had  taken  such 
strong  possession  of  his  mind. 

Either  because  he  was  Geraldine’s  brother,  or  on  account 
of  its  being  so  incredible — perhaps  both  reasons  influenced 
her — Prue  hesitated  about  mentioning  the  darkest  of  her 
fears. 

There  was  something  in  Gaspardo’s  words  and  manner 
that  tended  to  allay  this. 

“  Then  you  don’t  think,  sah,”  she  said,  in  conclusion, 
“  that  Marse  Robert’s  been  made  way  wid?” 

“  Made  away  with !  of  course  not.  Who’d  make  away 
with  him?” 

Prue  looked  a  little  dubiously  at  the  speaker. 

“  I  don’t  name  no  names,  sah,  but  there’s  somebody  we 
both  know  that  woula  be  mighty  glad,  in  my  ’pinion,  ef  he 
was  made  way  with.” 

“  You  mean  my  sister,  I  suppose?”  said  Gaspardo,  coolly. 
“  And  so  far  as  the  wish  is  concerned,  I  dare  say  you  are 
right,  but  both  strength  and  opportunity  are  wanting.” 

“  But  there’s  the  man  she  do  like,”  persisted  Prue,  “an’ 
who’s  been  skulkin’  ’bout  here.fur  so  long,  p’r’aps  she  done 
got  him  to  do  it?” 

Gaspardo  looked  a  little  startled  at  this  suggestion;  then 
he  said: 

“  That  is  more  likely,  but  not  at  all  probable.  By  your 
own  account,  you  saw  Mr.  Bayard  drive  up  to  the  door,  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  my  sister  to  me.  You  saw  him  go 
into  the  house,  didn’t  you?” 

“Yes,  sah.  But  I’s  never  seen  him  come  out,  or  sot  eyes 
on  him  from  that  day  to  this.” 

“  But  he  might  have  done  so,  for  all  that;  there  are  more 
entrances  and  more  ways  of  getting  out  of  the  house  and 
place  than  one.  My  idea  is,*  owing  either  to  the  persuasions 
of  his  wife  or  some  change  in  his  own  views,  he  has  de¬ 
cided  to  take  a  different  course.  I  think  we  shall  find  that 
he  has  gone  to  the  city  to  consult  his  lawyer.” 

“I  hope  so,  sah;  I’d  be  glad  ’nough  to  think  so.  But  it 
seems  mighty  cur’us  his  goin’  so  sudding,  leavin’  the  hosses 
to  the  door,  an’  without  sayin'  a  word  to  me  as  he  knowed 
would  be  frettin’  ’bout  him.” 

“  Under  ordinary  circumstances,  perhaps,  or  if  he  was  in 
his  usual  state  of  mind,  but  in  the  mood  he  was  in  it  is  the 
very  thing  he  would  do.  As  I  have  his  lawyer’s  address,  I 
shall  soon  know.  In  the  meantime,  I  want  you  to  keep  a 
sharp  watch  on  Mrs.  Bayard’s  movements.  Tell  Rattle, 
when  he  returns,  the  same  thing.  Tell  him  not  to  come  tQ 


50 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Eagle’s  Nest,  as  he  proposed,  as  I  don’t  want  him  to 
leave  the  premises.  1  shall  be  here  this  evening  to  see 
him.” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN  HUMBLE  BUT  TRUE  FRIEND. 

Geraldine  was  not  slow  to  perceive  the  delay  that  her 
brother’s  conclusions  in  regard  to  her  husband’s  mysteri¬ 
ous  disappearance  would  give  her.  She  knew  that  it  would 
not  only  prevent,  for  the  present  at  least,  any  examina¬ 
tion  of  the  dungeon  below,  and  which  she  dreaded  more 
than  anything  else,  but  give  her  opportunity  for  the  flight 
which  w’as  her  only  hope  of  safety. 

She  was  strongly  impressed  by  the  honesty  and  good- 
heartedness  of  Bridget  Connor,  especially  the  affection  she 
evinced  for  herself,  and  which  was  remarkable,  consider¬ 
ing  the  short  time  they  had  been  together. 

Taking  into  view  how  closely  she  was  watched,  and  that 
she  would  have  her  baby  with  her,  Geraldine  saw  how 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  it  would  be  for  her  to  get  away 
without  her  assistance. 

So  she  determined  to  confide  in  the  girl;  telling  her 
enough  in  regard  to  the  danger  of  her  present  position  to 
enlist  her  aid  and  sympathies. 

She  had  scarcely  reached  this  determination  when 
Bridget  entered,  her  face  pale  and  her  manner  indicating 
the  utmost  fright  and  consternation. 

Alarmed  at  this  unusual  demonstration,  and  all  it  indi¬ 
cated,  Geraldine  arose  to  her  feet. 

“What  has  happened,  Bridget?” 

“Happened,  is  it?”  cried  the  girl,  sinking  down  into  the 
nearest  seat,  from  pure  inability  to  stand  any  longer. 

‘  ‘  The  saints  be  good  to  us !  Oh !  wirra !  wirra !  that  iver  I 
shud  lave  ould  Ireland  to  fall  in  with  a  band  of  thaves  an’ 
robbers,  for  sure  an’  they  ain’t  no  betther,  bad  luck  to  the 
decavin’  villins!” 

“Don’t  talk  so  loudly,  Bridget,”  said  her  mistress,  clos¬ 
ing  the  door;  “  we  don’t  know  who  may  be  listening.” 

Going  to  a  sideboard,  Geralding  poured  out  some  wine 
from  a  decanter,  and  bringing  it  to  Bridget,  said : 

“  Drink  this,  my  good  girl,  and  then  see  if  you  can’t 
collect  yourself  sufficiently  to  tell  me  what  has  happened. 
I  am  sure  that  you  wouldn’t  keep  anything  from  me  that 
I  ought  to  know.” 

“  Indade  and  I  wadn’t,  ma’am,  But  how  can  I  till  ye, 
poor  leddy,  that’s  like  a  lamb  among  wolves — if  it  ain’t 
slanderin’  the  wild  bastes  to  call  thim  sech  that  turn  agin 
their  own  flesh  an’  blood  l  Oh !  swate  mother  l  that  iver  I 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  61 

shud  be  at  the  mercy  of  sech  black-hearted,  murtheriri 
villins!” 

Feeling  that  there  was  something  back  of  this  that  she 
ought  to  know,  and  with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  Geral¬ 
dine  endeavored  to  quiet  the  girl’s  agitation,  and  to  lead 
her  thoughts  m  the  right  direction. 

“Where  have  you  been.  Bridget?  I  sent  you  down 
stairs  for  baby’s  supper;  couldn’t  you  get  it?” 

This,  together  with  the  wine  she  had  drank,  had  the  de¬ 
sired  effect. 

Putting  down  her  apron  from  her  eyes,  the  girl  said : 

“  Sure  an’  there’s  where  I  wint,  ma’am,  jist  as  straight 
as  I  cud  go.  Findin’  nobody  in  the  kitchen,  I  wint  into 
the  panthry,  knowin’  jist  where  the  milk  an’  crackers  war, 
to  help  mesilf.  As  I  was  pourin’  the  milk  into  the  pitcher 
I  heard  voices,  and  lookin’  through  the  panthry  winder  I 
see  the  nagur  and  Rattle  jist  forninst  it  on  the  porch  out¬ 
side.  When  I  heerd  ’em  mention  your  name,  ma’am,  I 
pricked  up  me  ears  an’  listened.  I  cudn’t  understand  half 
on  it,  but  it  was  all  about  yersilf,  it  war,  an’  what  a  bad 
woman  ye  was.  Him  that  they  call  Rattle  said  as  how  he 
cud  till  Muster  Gaspar— I  forgit  the  name ” 

“Gaspardo,”  interposed  Geraldine. 

“Yes  ma’am,  Gusperdo.  I  heard  Rattle  say  as  how  he 
cud  tell  Muster  Gusperdo  somethin’  that  wud  make  him  so 
mad  that  he’d  aither  shoot  ye  or  pit  ye  back  into  the  cell 
down  sutler,  where  ye  was  before,  kapin’  ye  on  bread  an’ 
wather  as  long  as  ye  lived. 

“  The  nagur  was  ivery  bit  as  bad  as  the  other  one.  She 
said  ye’d  been  the  ruin  of  Masther  Robert,  an’  she  hoped 
to  live  to  dance  on  yer  grave.  Sure,  an’  it  made  me  blood 
run  cowld  to  hear  thim  two  go  on.” 

The  girl  was  evidently  taken  aback  by  the  manner  in 
which  her  mistress  received  this,  who  listened  gravely, 
but  with  no  appearance  of  surprise. 

“  Sure  an’  I  can’t  wondher  if  ye  don’t  belave  me,  ma’am. 
I  thought  I  was  drainin’  mesilf,  all  the  time  they  win 
talkin’.  But  if  it  ain’t  the  truth,  ivery  word  av  it,  may  me 
sowl  niver  see  Saint  Pether !” 

“  I  believe  all  you  have  told  me,  Bridget.  If  I  manifest 
no  surprise,  it  is  because  I  knew  before  you  spoke  what 
bloodthirsty  enemies  I  am  in  the  midst  of,  and  how  little 
mercy  I  have  to  expect  at  their  hands.  I  know  how  utterly 
friendless  and  unprotected  I  am  better  than  any  one  can 
tell  me.  I  have  not  a  friend  in  the  wide  world,  unless  I 
can  call  you  such.  I  hope  and  believe  that  you  are  my 
friend,  Bridget?” 

That  appealing  look  and  tone  went  straight  to  that  soft 
Irish  heart. 


52 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“Indade,  an’  I  am,  ma’am.  Yo  might  have  mony  a 
frind  betther  able  to  hilp  ye,  but  not  one  more  faithfuler. 
I’ll  do  my  bist  to  sarve  ye,  ye  may  be  sure  of  that.  But 
what  to  do  is  more’n  I  can  tell,  way  up  here  in  this  God¬ 
forsaken  place,  where  there  ain’t  no  p'lice,  nor  law,  nor 
anybody,  an’  the  murtherin’  thaves  have  it  all  their  own 
way,  jist.” 

“  You  are  right,  Bridget;  there  is  no  hope  for  me  here. 
Not  only  my  liberty,  but  lifd,  depends  upon  my  getting 
away  from  this  place,  and  it  must  be  done  to-night,  or 
never !” 

“  Hiven  help  ye,  poor  leddy !”  responded  Bridget,  wring¬ 
ing  her  hands  in  despair,  “  but  it’s  small  chance  ye  have 
of  gittin'  away,  I’m  thinkin’.  I  hard  the  nagur  say  that 
Muster  Gusperdo  towld  ’em  to  kape  a  close  watch  on  all 
yer  movements,  an’  not  let  yer  slip  outside  av  the  dure. 
Sure,  an’  I  think  me  ears  must  have  decaved  me,  but  I 
thought  I  hard  ye  say  he  war  yer  brother?” 

“If  to  be  my  father’s  son  makes  him  such,  he  is  my 
brother,  Bridget.  But  far  from  expecting  any  brotherly 
love  or  sympathy  from  him,  I  would  rather  be  at  the  mercy 
of  any  one  else  than  his;  for,  from  my  earliest  remem¬ 
brance,  no  hand  has  been  so  hard  and  cruel  against  me  as 
his.” 

“More  shame  to  him  thin!  to  turn  ag’in  his  own  flesh 
and  blood.  It’s  mesilf  that  belaves  that  they’ve  murdhered 
the  masther,  an’  now  want  to  lay  the  blame  on  you.  ’Cordin’ 
to  my  way  av  thinkin’,  a  woman  can’t  have  no  betther 
friend — ’cept  he’s  a  brute  right  out — thin  the  father  av  her 
childer.  If  the  masther  wor  here,  they  wudn’t  dare  to  trate 
ye  this  way.” 

It  was  not  the  smallest  part  of  the  guilty  wife’s  punish¬ 
ment  to  know  that  that  rash  act,  instead  of  making  her 
situation  more  tolerable,  had  made  it  doubly  hard  and 
perilous. 

No  one  knew  better  than  she  that  when  the  fury  of  her 
husband’s  jealous  rage  had  abated,  there  would  have  come 
some  relenting  touch  of  tenderness  to  soften  his  heart 
toward  the  mother  of  his  boy.  That,  however  hard  and 
stern  he  might  be,  he  was  incapable  of  abetting  or  coun¬ 
tenancing  his  cold-blooded  cruelty  at  whose  mercy  she  now 
was. 

Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  faltered : 

“ Don’t,  don’t  speak  of  him!  I  can’t  bear  it.” 

Raising  her  head  a  few  moments  later,  she  added : 

“I  know  as  well  as  you  do,  Bridget,  how  closely  I  am 
watched.  It  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  get  away  through 
any  of  the  known  entrances,  as  they  will  be  guarded  night 
and  day.  But  I  have  discovered  a  secret  passage  out  of  the 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME ,  53 

building  that  no  one  knows  anything  about.  If  we  act 
prudently,  we  can  escape  by  that,  and  be  miles  and  miles 
away  before  they  miss  us.  Now  go  down-stairs  and  get 
baby’s  and  my  supper;  we  want  to  seem  to  retire  early. 
And  be  sure  and  not  to  give  Prue  the  least  hint  or  look  to 
show  that  you  think  there’s  anything  wrong.” 

“  Never  you  fear,  ma’am,”  responded  Bridget;  “sorra  a 
word  or  hint  will  she  git  out  av  me.” 

“  Sure,  an’  it’s  a  tindher  heart  the  mistress  has,”  thought 
the  simple-hearted  girl,  as  she  took  her  way  down-stairs. 
“  She  can’t  bear  the  mintion  of  her  husband’s  name,  poor 
thing!  An’  to  think  av  thim  two  declarin’  how  she’s  at  the 
bottom  of  his  disaparence.  The  swate  leddy!  that’s  too 
gmtle  an’  kind  to  dale  with  the  likes  av  ’em.  Bad  luck  to 
'em!  the  murtherin’  spalpeens!  Won’t  I  be  glad  enough  to 
git  out  av  their  rache,  and  won’t  they  be  mad  enough  in 
the  morning  to  find  that  we’ve  given  ’em  the  slip  in  spite 
av  all  their  watchiiTs  and  spy  in’s?” 

CHAPTER  XII. 

GASPARDO’S  CONFERENCE  WIT F  RATTLE. 

“  Be  sure  and  eat  a  good  supper,  Bridget,”  said  Geral¬ 
dine,  on  that  individual’s  return,  bearing  a  tray  containing 
a  number  of  covered  dishes.  “We  shall  have  to  walk  a 
long  distance  before  coming  to  where  we  can  take  the  cars, 
and  shall  need  all  the  strength  we  can  muster/’ 

“I  hope  ye’ll  take  thim  words  to  yersilf,  ma’am,”  re¬ 
sponded  Bridget,  as  placing  the  tray  on  the  round  table, 
she  drew  it  in  front  of  her  mistress.  “Ye  naden’t  have 
ony  fear  av  me  in  the  aitin’,  or  slapin’  line  neither.  The 
saints  be  praised !  I  can  howld  my  own  in  aither  respict. 
But  as  to  yersilf,  ma’am,  ye  don’t  ate  enough  to  kape  a 
bird  alive,  lettin’  alone  a  woman  with  a  baby.  You  shud 
ate  something  nourishing  an’  plinty  av  it,  so  ye  shud.  It’s 
fitter  ye  look  to  be  on  the  bed  this  minute,  thin  goin’  a 
journey.” 

Realizing  the  good  sense  as  well  as  good  feeling  in  these 
words,  Geraldine  made  a  strong  and  successful  effort  to 
overcome  the  repugnance  to  food  that  she  had  felt  of  late. 

Many  of  the  tempting  dishes,  prepared  by  the  hand  of 
her  faithful  attendant,  had  been  sent  away  untasted,  while 
the  little  nourishment  she  had  taken  had  been  fairly  forced 
down.  But  now,  roused  by  the  stimulus  of  how  much  de¬ 
pended  on  it,  our  heroine  made  such  an  inroad  on  the  lib¬ 
eral  supply  that  Bridget  set  before  her  as  to  fill  her  honest 
heart  with  a  joy  and  satisfaction  that  found  expression  in 
the  following  words: 

“Sure,  an’  it  does  me  heart  good  to  see  ye  pluckin’  up 


54 


A  WIFE  ’ S  CHIME, 


an  aitin’,  as  a  Christian  shud.  I’ll  put  the  rest  by  fur  us 
to  ate  on  the  way.  It  won’t  come  amiss,  I’m  thinkin’.” 

These  words  had  hardly  left  Bridget’s  lips  when  there 
came  a  not  very  gentle  rap  at  the  door,  which  she  hastened 
to  open. 

It  was  Rattle,  who,  looking  a  little  curiously  at  the  rosy 
and  rather  defiant  face  that  confronted  him,  said : 

“  I  want  to  see  your  mistress.” 

The  speaker  was  a  strong,  sturdy  man  about  thirty,  his 
whole  appearance  indicating  a  bull  dog  tenacity  of  pur¬ 
pose,  combined  with  an  amount  of  animal  passions  which 
might  make  him  a  dangerous  person  to  deal  with  when 
they  were  aroused,  though  under  ordinary  circumstances 
this  was  not  so  apparent. 

It  was  evident  from  the  look  with  which  he  regarded 
Geraldine,  who  now  came  forward,  that  he  shared  old 
Prue's  dislike  and  distrust  of  her. 

Without  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  Geraldine  said: 

“  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  tell  me  about  Lionel.  How 
is  he,  and  where?” 

Rattle  was  evidently  entirely  unprepared  for  this  ques¬ 
tion,  his  mind  being  intent  on  something  widely  differ¬ 
ent. 

“  If  the  boy’s  father  hain't  told  you  where  he  is,  I  hain’t 
likely  to,”  was  the  sullen  response. 

Geraldine  had  already  decided  on  the  course  of  action 
she  would  take  with  her  unwelcome  visitor. 

“If  you  didn’t  come  to  tell  me  about  my  boy,  for  what 
did  you  come?”  was  the  sharp  and  prompt  query. 

“  The  lad’s  safe  enough,  I  made  sure  of  that.  I’m  a  deal 
more  concerned  about  his  father  just  now.  He  didn’t  say 
nothin’  to  me  ’bout  goin’  away.  I  spected  he’d  be  here 
when  I  got  back.  ’Bout  what  time  did  you  see  him  last?” 

Those  dark  eyes  met  with  a  look  of  haughty  surprise  that 
questioning  gaze.  - 

“  You  strangely  forget  yourself,  Rattle.  It  is  not  your 
place  to  question  me,  nor  will  I  suffer  it.” 

Rattle  studied  the  face  of  the  speaker  for  some  moments, 
but  apparently  without  obtaining  anything  satisfactory, 

“  Your  brother  said  he  was  cornin’  to  see  me  this  evenin’, 
he’s  got  some  questions  to  ask  me.  It’s  ’bout  time  he  was 
here.  I  thought  p’r’aps  you  had  somethin’  to  say  to  me 
afore  he  come.” 

Geraldine  knew  all  that  this  portended,  that  what  the 
speaker  had  it  in  his  power  to  say  would  heighten  to  a 
white  heat  her  brother’s  rage  against  her,  but  she  knew, 
also,  that  she  might  as  well  appeal  to  the  solid  rock  on 
which  the  house  was  founded  as  to  his  heart,  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  so  keenly  upon  her;  that  the  hope  that  was  held 


A  WIFE ’S  CRIME . 


55 


out  to  her  that  anything  she  might  say  would  influence 
him  was  merely  a  trap  to  lure  her  to  some  admission  that 
could  be  used  against  her.  So,  though  her  heart  sank  like 
lead  in  her  bosom,  her  haughty  look  did  not  waver  as  she 
said: 

“  What  would  I  possibly  have  to  say  to  youi  You  must 
have  a  strange  idea  of  our  relative  positions  to  suppose 
such  a  thing.” 

A  dark,  ominous  look  passed  over  the  man’s  face  at 
these  words. 

“You  must  have  a  good  deal  stranger  idee  if  you  s’pose 
your  husband’s  strange  an’  sudden  disappearance  is  goin’ 
to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  He  was  a  kind,  good  master 
to  me,  an’  I  ain’t  goin’  to  leave  a  stone  unturned  to  ferret 
this  thing  out,  you  may  jist  bet  your  life  on  that !” 

As  Geraldine  listene  d  to  those  heavy,  retreating  foot¬ 
steps,  her  heart  grew  sick  with  a  fear  and  apprehension, 
all  the  more  deadly  because  of  its  vagueness  and  uncer¬ 
tainty. 

She  knew  her  brother  Lorenzo  to  be  capable  of  terrible 
things  when  his  anger  was  fully  aroused,  as  she  was  con¬ 
scious  it  would  be  if  Rattle  revealed  to  him  all  that  had 
come  to  his  knowledge,  but  how  and  in  what  manner  it 
would  vent  itself  was  not  so  clear.  Whether  it  would  be 
only  satisfied  with  the  life,  now  valueless  to  her  save  for 
the  doubly  orphaned  children,  or  rest  content  with  taking 
from  that  life  every  pleasant  thing,  were  questions  that 
would  not  be  silenced,  but  which  she  found  it  impossible  to 
answer.  > 

As  Geraldine  reflected  how  utterly  in  the  power  she  was 
of  these  bold,  bad,  brutal  men,  her  thoughts  again  reverted 
to  the  strong  arm  that  she  well  knew  would  have  defended 
her  against  any  such  cruelty  as  this,  but  which  was  power¬ 
less  to  aid  her  now. 

A  heavy  groan  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  wretched 
woman,  who  felt  that  her  punishment  was  greater  than 
she  could  bear. 

Bridget,  who  had  been  present  during  her  mistress’  in¬ 
terview  with  Rattle,  could  no  longer  keep  silent. 

“  Sure  an’  I  wouldn’t  mind  what  he  sez,  ma’am,  the  im- 
perdent  blackguard,  that  hasn’t  as  much  manners  as  a  pig ! 
Let  him  wag  his  tongue  an1  plaze  himself  by  talkin’,  he 
can’t  harm  ye  ony.  It’s  mesilf  that  hopes  that  we’ll  be  a 
good  many  miles  away  from  this  dreadful  place  by  this 
time  to  morrow.  If  I’d  known  what  it  was  an’  the  sort  of 
people  I  shud  find  here,  I  wild  never  have  sot  futin  it!” 

“  Don’t  talk  so  loudly,  my  good  girl,”  said  Geraldine, 
glancing  at  the  door  a  little  apprehensively  as  she  spoke. 
“  If  they  should  have  the  faintest  idea  of  what  l  mean  to 


56 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


try  to  accomplish  to-night,  our  last  and  only  chance  of  es¬ 
cape  will  be  lost.  Take  a  seat  by  the  balcony-window,  and 
tell  me  if  you  see  any  one  coming  up  the  avenue.  Don’t  sit 
where  you  can  be  seen.” 

Bridget  had  scarcely  taken  her  seat  at  the  place  desig¬ 
nated,  when  a  man  on  horseback  made  his  appearance, 
riding  swiftly  up  to  the  main  entrance. 

The  first  glance  told  the  girl  who  it  was,  Lorenzo  Gas- 
pardo’s  tall,  erect  figure  bringing  him  very  conspicuously 
into  view. 

“  It’s  y  er  brother,”  she  said,  returning  to  where  her  mis¬ 
tress  sat.  “  Leastways  that’s  what  ye  called  him.  A  quare 
brother  he  is,  onyway.” 

Geraldine’s  situation  was  altogether  too  critical  for  her 
to  attempt  the  concealment,  to  which,  under  ordinary  cir¬ 
cumstances,  pride  would  have  induced  her  to  resort. 

“He  is  my  brother,  Bridget — alas  for  me!  alas  for  us 
both !  I  cannot  remember  that  he  ever  evinced  for  me  the 
slightest  brotherly  affection,  and  to  day  there  is  not  a  be¬ 
ing  in  the  wide  world  to  whom  I  would  not  sooner  go  for 
aid  and  protection  than  he.  Keep  careful  watch,  and  tell 
me  if  you  see  him  leave  the  house,  as,  pray  Heaven,  he 
may.  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  commence  preparations  for 
our  flight  until  he  goes.” 

Bridget  resumed  her  watch  by  the  window,  and,  taking 
Isabel  in  her  arms,  Geraldine  began  to  rock  her  slowly  to 
and  fro,  her  mind  too  intent  on  the  conference  that  she 
knew  was  being  held  below  for  her  to  share  the  quiet  rest 
into  which  the  child  soon  sank,  who  was  too  young  to  be 
conscious  of  the  perils  that  menaced  it. 

As  Geraldine  sat  thus  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  heavy 
step  upon  the  stairs. 

Rising  to  her  feet,  she  clasped  her  babe  more  closely  to 
her  bosom,  as  though  she  thought  its  innocence  and  help¬ 
lessness  would  insure  her  some  protection.  Then,  resum¬ 
ing  her  sent,  she  nerved  herself  for  the  fierce  storm  that 
she  knew  was  approaching. 

A  few  moments  later  the  door  was  flung  open,  and 
Lorenzo  Gaspardo  stood  before  her,  his  usually  swarthy 
face  white  with  the  fury  that  raged  within,  and  which 
found  expression  in  the  following  words : 

“Disgrace  to  your  sex  and  name!  if  I  do  not  know  as 
yet  their  full  extent,  I  know  something  of  your  guilt  and 
folly  in  time  to  prevent  the  shame  that  you  seem  de¬ 
termined  to  bring  upon  all  connected  with  you.  Though 
you  have  escaped  the  vengeance  of  your  justly  incensed 
husband,  don’t  think  that  you  will  escape  me/” 

“  What  are  you  going  to  do?  Whither  are  you  going  to 
take  ipe  at  this  time  of  night?”  shrieked  Geraldine, 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


57 


struggling  in  the  fierce  grasp  that  was  endeavoring  to  drag 
her  toward  the  door. 

“I'm  going  to  take  you  to  the  dungeon  below.  You  are 
not  altogether  unfamiliar  with  the  place,  I  believe. 
Whether  you  escaped  by  force,  fraud,  or  some  foolish  re- 
lentings  on  the  part  of  the  man  you  have  so  basely 
wronged,  you  may  be  sure  that  no  such  means  will  avail 
with  me.” 

A  feeling  of  unutterable  horror  took  possession  of  Geral¬ 
dine  at  these  words. 

“  Not  there,  not  there!”  she  cried.  “Unless  you  wish  to 
kill  me  outright,  do  not  take  me  there !” 

The  thought  of  being  thrust  into  the  cell  where  lay  the 
body  of  her  murdered  husband — murdered  by  her  own 
band— was  too  much  for  the  nervous  system,  already 
strained  to  its  utmost  tension,  unconsciousness  coming 
mercifully  to  her  relief. 

Gaspardo  gazed  unmercifully  at  the  white  face  that  was 
lying  at  his  feet,  and  then  glanced  up  at  Rattle,  who  was 
now  standing  in  the  open  doorway. 

“  Bear  a  hand,  man.  She’s  quiet  enough,  now,  and  we’ll 
get  her  down  there  without  any  more  outcry  and  ado.  Let 
old  Prue  go  ahead  with  the  light  and  open  the  door.” 

Rushing  past  Rattle,  Prue  now  stood  beside  the  speaker, 
her  eyes,  as  they  rested  upon  Geraldine’s  prostrate  form, 
glancing  with  a  look  of  mingled  curiosity  and  triumph. 

“  The  door  of  the  cell  is  locked,  and  the  key  ain’t  to  be 
found  nowhere.” 

“  Not  to  be  found?”  echoed  Gaspardo,  in  a  tone  of  sur¬ 
prise.  “A  key  that  would  turn  a  lock  like  that  could 
hardly  get  astray.  What  do  you  think  has  become  of  it?” 

“I  do’  know.  At  first  I  thought  she  had  it” — pointing 
to  Geraldine — “but  latterly  I’m  of  the  ’pinion  that  Marse 
Robert  tuck  it  away  with  him — if  so  be  he  did  go.  I 
minded  that  he  alius  kept  that  key  himself.” 

Rattle  now  spoke. 

“  I  don’t  TTlieve  there’s  any  danger  of  her  gittin’  away 
from  here,  sir;  not  if  the  back  winders  is  nailed  down,  an’ 
a  sharp  watch  kept  in  front.  I’ll  take  an  impression  of  the 
lock  in  the  mornin’,  an’  git  a  key  made.” 

“  I  suppose  that  is  the  best  thing  that  can  be  done  now,” 
said  Gaspardo,  making  a  careful  survey  around.  “  I  shall 
trust  to  you  to  have  everything  safe  and  secure.” 

“  Here,  girl,”  he  added,  addressing  Bridget,  who,  during 
this  exciting  scene,  had  been  kneeling,  or  rather  crouch¬ 
ing,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  uttering  prayers 
and  ejaculations  to  all  the  saints  she  could  think  of,  inter¬ 
spersed  with  smothered  moans,  occasioned  by  the  fright 
that  had  seized  her  ‘  Here  «to»  that  noise,  and 


58 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


come  at  once  and  attend  to  your  mistress.  You  are  not 
hurt  or  going  to  be  hurt.  You’ll  be  locked  up  here  to¬ 
night.  To-morrow  morning  you’ll  be  paid  a  month’s 
wages,  blindfolded  and  taken  to  a  certain  point  down  the 
river,  where,  if  you  are  wise  enough  to  keep  your  own 
counsel,  you  will  be  allowed  to  go  where  you  please. 

“I  shall  look  to  you  to  attend  to  this,  Rattle.” 

The  man  nodded. 

And  without  a  glance  at  the  insensible  form  lying  there 
so  white  and  still,  Lorenzo  G-aspardo  left  the  room. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

A.  s 

GERALDINE’S  FLIGHT. 

When  Geraldine  awoke  to  consciousness  she  found  her 
faithful  handmaid  almost  in  despair  at  her  long  swoon. 

With  the  dim  feeling  that  something  terrible  had  or  was 
about  to  happen,  she  raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 

gasping: 

“  “What  is  it — where  am  I?” 

“  The  saints  be  praised!”  sobbed  Bridget.  “  Sure,  an’  I 
thought  that  ye’d  niver  open  your  eyes  or  spake  again.” 

Slowly  it  all  came  back  to  the  wretched  worn  in.  Lift¬ 
ing  her  head,  she  looked  shudderingly  around. 

“Have  they  really  gone?  Won’t  they  be  back  to  drag 
me  down  to  that  dreadful  place?” 

“  They’d  do  it  if  they  cud ;  it’s  no  thanks  to  thim  that  ye 
ain’t  there  now.  I  hard  thim  talkin’  betwixt  thimsilves 
that  the  kay  av  it  was  lost.  Sure,  an’  it’s  mesilf  that  hopes 
that  it  will  kape  lost.” 

“ Thank  God!”  ejaculated  Geraldine,  as  her  head  sank 
wearily  back  upon  the  pillow.  “  I  think  that  I  should  die 
or  go  mad  if  I  was  taken  there.  If  it  were  not  for  my  poor 
baby,  death  would  be  a  welcome  release.  But  for  her  sake 
I  must  live ;  for  her  sake  I  must  try  to  circumvent  and  es¬ 
cape  from  my  cruel  enemies.  ” 

“  Cruel  is  the  right  name  fur  ’em,”  exclaimed  Bridget, 
wringing  her  hands  in  despair.  “Oh!  wirra!  wirra!  that 
iver  I  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  such  murtherin’  villyuns 
as  thim !” 

“  You  have  no  occasion  to  fear,  my  good  girl,”  interposed 
Geraldine,  roused  from  the  contemplation  of  her  own  mis¬ 
ery  by  the  terror  so  plainly  depicted  by  every  look  and 
tone  of  the  speaker,  who  had  flung  herself  down  beside  the 
bed.  “  It  is  I  whom  they  hate  and  persecute;  no  harm  will 
come  to  you.” 

“Ye  wudn’t  be  so  sure  av  that  if  ye’d  hard  your  brother’s 
words,  whin  ye  lay  faintin’  on  the  flure.  He  said  I’d  stay 
here  the  night,  an’  in  the  mornin’  be  tuck  to  gome  lonely 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME, 


59 


place  down  the  river,  where,  if  I’ll  promise  niver  to  revale 
their  wicked  doin’s,  they’ll  set  me  free.  They’ll  silence  me 
tongue  by  murdherin’  me,  more  like !” 

“So  my  cruel  brother  intends  to  deprive  me  of  my  only 
friend,”  said  Geraldine,  with  a  sad  smile.  “For  you  have 
been  a  true  and  kind  friend  to  me,  Bridget :  situated  as  I 
am,  I  don’t  know  how  I  should  have  got  along  without  you.” 

These  words  went  straight  to  that  honest  and  kindly 
heart. 

“  Sure,  an’  I’d  like  to  sarve  ye  to  the  end  of  me  days,  if 
so  be  I  cud.  If  they’d  let  me,  I’d  stay  with  ye  whativir 
come.  Not  that  I’d  be  able  to  help  ye  ony  ;  it’s  little  that 
one  man  cud  do  against  so  many,  let  alone  a  woman.  If  I 
got  clear  of  thim,  isn’t  there  some  frind  of  yours  that  I  cud 
sind  word  to?” 

“  No  one;  the  only  relatives  thac  I  have  in  the  world  are 
my  brothers,  if  such  they  can  be  called.  Besides,  they  will 
not  set  you  free  unless  you  take  a  solemn  oath  not  to  be¬ 
tray  them.” 

The  girl  glanced  up  in  some  surprise  at  the  speaker. 

“An’  do  ye  think  it  wud  be  bindin’  on  me  conscience  to 
kape  it,  ma’am,  whin  it’s  forced  from  ye,  an’  by  sich  divils 
as  thim?” 

‘  ‘  Perhaps  not.  It  might  be  even  wrong  for  you  to  keep 
it,  if  so  be  you  could  do  any  good  by  breaking  it.  In  this 
instance  it  could  be  of  no  avail.  What  they  have  to  do 
will  be  done  too  quickly  and  effectually  for  any  help  to 
reach  me  in  that  way.” 

A  look  of  horror  overspread  the  girl’s  face. 

“The  saints  be  good  to  us,  sure,  an’  ye  don’t  think  they 
mane  to  murther  ye,  ma’am?” 

A  faint  smile  touched  Geraldine’s  lips. 

“  They  may  not  call  it  by  such  an  ugly  name,  Bridget. 
By  some  strange  process  of  reasoning,  they  may  consider 
that  they  are  meting  out  to  me  the  punishment  that  I  de¬ 
serve.  This  I  know,  that  my  brothers  intend  to  either  take 
my  life  or  to  consign  me  to  a  living  tomb,” 

“Swate  mother!  did  iver  ony  one  hear  the  like?”  ejacu¬ 
lated  Bridget,  with  uplifted  hands.  “  They’ll  take  me  away 
in  the  mornin’,  an’  I’ll  nivir  know  what  become  of  ye.” 

“  Never  fear,  Bridget,  you  follow  my  directions,  and  we 
won’t  either  of  us  be  here  in  the  morning.  So  get  up  on  to 
your  feet,  my  good  girl,  and  take  courage .” 

“Sure  an’  there’s  nothin’  I’d  like  betlier,”  responded 
Bridget,  as  she  obeyed.  “But  how  we  are  to  git  away, 
with  the  dure  locked  on  the  outside  an’  all  the  windies 
nailed  down,  is  more  than  I  can  till.” 

Making  a  strong  and  successful  effort  to  overcome  the 
faintness  that  benumbed  limb  and  brain,  Geraldine  moved 


60 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


across  the  room  to  the  toilet-table,  where  she  began  to 
bathe  her  face  and  head  in  the  cool,  fresh  water  there. 

‘Are  the  windows  nailed  down?”  she  said,  as  she  took 
the  towel  from  Bridget’s  hand. 

“Indade,  an’  they  be,  ma’am.  Whin  I  was  tryin’  to 
bring  ye  to,  an’  thinkin’  I  never  cud,  in  comes  Battle,  ham¬ 
merin’  away  at  ’em,  as  though  he  liked  nothin’  better.  Bad 
luck  to  |him !  It’s  me  b’lafe  that  lie’s  as  bad  as  Muster 
Gaspardo,  ivery  bit.  And  as  for  the  nagur,  she’s  a  dale 
worse  than  aither  av  ’em.” 

“Never  mind  about  the  windows,  Bridget,”  responded 
her  mistress,  reassuringly;  “we  are  not  going  out  that 
way. 

“You  foolish  girl,”  she  added,  as  she  looked  upon 
Bridget’s  disturbed  face,  ‘  ‘  have  you  forgotten  how  high  up 
we  are,  and  the  jagged  rocks  below?  It  would  be  almost 
certain  death  for  us  to  attempt  it.  It  is  in  our  favor  that 
they  have  taken  all  these  precautions,  as,  believing  that 
they  have  made  everything  secure,  they  will  keen  no 
watch  on  our  movements,  leaving  me  free  to  carry  out  my 
plan.  The  time  to  do  this  must  be  close  at  hand.  My 
watch  has  stopped ;  go  into  the  next  room  and  see  what 
time  it  is.” 

“  It’s  half- past  ’leven,  ma’am,”  said  Bridget,  on  her 
return,  upon  whose  spirits  Geraldine’s  hopeful  words  had 
a  most  happy  effect,  as  could  be  seen  by  her  tone  and  move¬ 
ments. 

“Then  we  have  just  time  to  get  ready,”  responded 
Geraldine,  “  as  we  must  leave  a  little  after  midnight.  Get 
the  dark  lantern  from  the  closet  where  you  hid  it. 

“We  must  put  the  other  lights  out,”  continued  Geral¬ 
dine,  as  she  proceeded  to  light  the  lantern,  “  and  talk  very 
low,  so  that  they  will  think  we  are  sleeping.” 

Geraldine’s  next  move  was  in  the  direction  of  a  desk. 

The  pressure  of  a  spring  brought  some  bank-bills  and  gold 
into  view.  x  ,r  ||| 

“We  shall  need  money,”  she  said,  as  she  put  them  in 
her  purse.  “  If  ever  we  get  to  the  outside  world  again  we 
shall  find  it  to  be  as  good  a  friend  as  we  can  have.” 

“  It’s  a  lucky  thing  that  ye’ve  got  it,  ma’am,”  responded 
Bridget,  her  eyes  resting  a  little  longingly  upon  the  glit¬ 
tering  coin. 

Perhaps  Geraldine  observed  this,  for  taking  two  gold 
eagles  she  put  them  in  the  girl’s  hand. 

“  You  had  better  take  this.  I  pray  Heaven  that  we  may 
not  become  separated ;  but,  if  we  should  be,  I  shall  feel  bet¬ 
ter  to  know  that  you  have  it  with  you.  Sew  it  up  in  your 
dress  so  that  it  will  not  be  taken  from  you.  Then  bring 
baby  to  me,  being  careful  not  to  wake  her.” 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


61 


The  girl  obeyed  all  her  mistress’  directions,  the  two  work¬ 
ing  together  with  so  much  quietness  and  celerity,  that 
when  the  large  clock  in  the  liall  below  tolled  forth  the 
hour  of  twelve  all  their  preparations  were  completed. 

When  Geraldine  had  made  sure  of  this  she  bade  Bridget 
assist  her  in  removing  from  its  place  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  a  cumbrous,  old-fashioned  secretary,  whose  top 
reached  nearly  to  the  ceiling. 

This  had  to  be  done  with  great  care  and  caution,  lest 
lome  sound  should  reach  those  outside. 

This  ancient  piece  of  furniture  concealed  a  secret  door, 
of  which  no  one  else  in  the  house,  not  even  its  late  master, 
had  any  knowledge. 

Geraldine  had  discovered  it  months  before,  as  she  was 
rummaging  through  the  house  in  one.of  her  restless  moods, 
never  speaking  of  it  to  any  one. 

The  opening  of  this  door  revealed  some  steep  and  narrow 
stairs,  leading  downward,  made,  apparently,  of  solid 
stone. 

At  the  sight  of  this  Bridget  could  not  help  uttering  an 
ejaculation  of  astonishment  and  delight,  but  which  was 
quickly  checked  by  her  mistress. 

“We  are  by  no  means  out  of  the  woods  yet,  having 
many  dangers  as  well  as  hardships  before  us.  Everything 
depends  on  our  having  a  fair  start;  any  unusual  sound  or 
movement  will  betray  us.” 

Geraldine  would  gladly  have  returned  the  secretary  to 
its  place,  so  as  to  have  concealed  their  way  of  escape,  but 
this  was  impossible,  there  being  no  one  on  the  other  side 
to  do  this.  But  she  darkened  the  room,  drawing  the  sec¬ 
retary  as  near  to  the  door  as  she  could,  and  leave  sufficient 
room  to  pass  through,  hoping,  at  least,  to  delay  the  dis¬ 
covery. 

The  two  now  commenced  this  steep  and  perilous  descent 
into  they  knew  not  what,  so  intense  was  the  darkness  be¬ 
low  and  around  them,  and  which  the  faint  light  they  car¬ 
ried  made  little  more  than  visible. 

Bridget  went  before  with  the  lantern,  Geraldine  follow¬ 
ing  with  little  Isabel  in  her  arms,  whom  she  would  not 
trust  out  of  them  at  such  a  time  as  this. 

The  stairs,  which  were  very  long;  had  evidently  not  been 
used  for  some  time,  being  covered  with  a  fine,  soft  dust. 
Further  down,  the  dampness  had  formed  it  into  a  sort  of 
slime,  which  would  have  been  dangerous  had  it  not  been 
for  the  roughness  of  the  way,  which  prevented  the  feet 
from  slipping. 

After  going  down  forty  or  fifty  steps  in  straight  descent, 
they  came  to  a  landing,  or  rather  narrow  passage-way, 
which  led  directly  forward  to  another  stairs  very  similar 


62 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


in  appearance,  and  full  as  long,  as  they  found  out  as  they 
took  their  way  down. 

When  they  came  to  the  second  landing  the  murmuring 
sound  of  water  could  be  distinctly  heard  in  the  distance. 

“  What’s  that  rushing  sound  that  I  hear?”  inquired  Brid* 
get,  who  had  sat  herself  down  upon  the  last  stair,  intent 
on  having  a  “  breathin’  spell  ”  as  she  called  it,  before  going 
any  further. 

“  It  is  the  river,”  replied  Geraldine.  “We  must  be  very 
near  it  now.  ” 

The  third  flight  of  stairs  was  somewhat  shorter,  leading 
directly  down  to  the  water. 

As  they  neared  the  bottom  the  steps  grew  very  moist, 
while  a  damp  chilliness  pervaded  the  air. 

A  few  moments  later  Geraldine  stood  upon  the  last  step, 
looking  out  upon  the  river  that  was  moving  swiftly  past, 
and  which  presented  such  a  formidable  barrier  to  any 
further  progress. 

“Good  fathers!”  ejaculated  Bridget,  holding  up  her 
hands,  ‘  ‘  how  iver  are  we  to  git  acrass  the  river,  when 
ther’s  niver  a  boat  or  bridge,  or  onybody  to  hilp  us?” 

There  was  considerable  space  where  the  stairs  ended ;  the 
entrance,  opening  out  upon  the  river,  being  broad  and  a 
little  lower,  the  water  entered  it  part  way.  It  gradually 
arose  until  it  reached  the  stairs,  forming  what  seemed  like 
a  small  cave,  whether  natural  or  artificial  it  was  not  easy 
for  Geraldine  to  decide  from  the  small  amount  of  light  af¬ 
forded  by  the  lantern,  and  which  Bridget  was  swinging 
about,  taking  a  careful  survey  of  their  new  and  strange 
quarters,  so  far  as  the  darkness  would  admit. 

Suddenly  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy. 

“  D’ye  see  that,  ma’am?” 

On  looking  in  the  direction  in  which  the  girl  pointed, 
Geraldine  saw  a  small  skiff,  or  what  looked  like  one,  in  the 
dim  light. 

On  examining  it  more  closely  Geraldine  saw  that  it'  was 
whole,  though  very  old,  having  the  appearance  of  not 
having  been  in  the  water  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  not  heavy,  and  by  their  united  strength  they  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  dragging  it  to  the  water’s  edge. 

Here  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  now  emerged  from  a 
cloud,  enabled  them  to  obtain  a  clearer  idea  of  its  condi¬ 
tion. 

It  was  not  only  small  and  frail,  but  the  wood  consider¬ 
ably  decayed  from  its  long  disuse,  though  there  were  no 
serious  leaks  in  it. 

As  Geraldine  looked  at  it  she  glanced  in  dismay  at  Brid¬ 
get’s  plump,  buxom  form,  which  was  all  of  a  third  heavier 
than  her  own. 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


63 


Without  communicating  her  fears  to  the  girl,  she  as¬ 
sisted  her  in  pushing  the  boat  off,  and  then,  in  order  to  test 
it,  stepped  in. 

The  result  showed  that  it  was  all  that  it  would  safely 
bear,  that  the  addition  of  twenty  more  pounds  would  sink 

it. 


Bridget  was  not  slow  to  interpret  the  perplexity  and  dis¬ 
appointment  so  clearly  expressed  in  her  mistress’  face. 

“Sit  ye  down,  ma’am.  It  will  bear  yerself  an’  the  babby, 
but  niver  a  bit  more  will  it  howld.  ” 

“And  leave  you  here,  my  good  girl,  after  all  your  faith¬ 
fulness  and  devotion?  I  can’t  find  it  in  my  heart  to  do 
that.” 

“  Ye  can’t  do  ony thing  else,  ma’am,”  said  the  girl,  stoutly. 
“  The  boat  won’t  hold  us  both,  that’s  aisy  seen,  an’  your 
stayin’  here  will  make  it  a  dale  worse  for  you,  an’  not  the 
laste  bit  betther  for  me.  It’s  you  that  thim  ugly  divils 
hate ;  they  won’t  be  bothered  with  the  loikes  of  me  at  all, 
at  all.” 

There  was  sound  sense  in  this,  and  as  Geraldine  looked 
down  upon  her  baby,  her  resolution  wavered. 

“  But  what  will  you  do?  Go  back  to  where  we  came 
from?” 

“  Av  course.  An’  whin  I  once  git  there  I’ll  fix  the  sacret 
dure  so  they  won’t  mistrust  there  bein’  ony,  an’  thin  go  to 
bed  as  if  nothin’  had  happened.  And  in  the  morning,  when 
they  find  ye  gone,  I’ll  pretind  to  be  as  much  astonished  as 
thim.” 

Geraldine’s  countenance  showed  that  she  did  not  share  in 
the  confidence  of  the  speaker. 

“I  will  not  deceive  you,  my  poor  girl;  my  brother  will 
be  very  angry  at  my  escape,  and  will  be  likely  to  visit  his 
anger  on  you.  He  can  do  dreadful  things  when  he  is 
angry.” 

There  must  have  been  an  heroic  element  under  that  rough 
exterior,  for,  though  the  rosy  cheeks  paled  a  little  at  all 
that  this  implied,  her  resolution  did  not  falter. 

“  I’ll  take  me  chances.  They  can’t  more  nor  kill  me.  It’s 
an  aven  chance,  ony  way,  to  be  drowned  or  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  thim  divils.  Don’t  ye  be  afther  worryin’,  ma’am. 
It’s  me  belafe  that  your  brother  will  let  me  go,  whin  he  sees 
that  there’s  nothin’  to  be  gained  by  kaping  me.  It  can’t  be 
fur  from  mornin’,  so  it's  time  ye  was  off.  Sit  as  much  as 
ye  can  in  the  middle  of  the  boat,  an’  I’ll  give  it  a  shove. 
Ye  can’t  row  ag’inst  the  current,  ye’ll  have  to  float  down 
the  sthrame,  kapin’  as  near  as  ye  can  to  the  shore.  Ye  had 
betther  land  as  soon  as  ye  can  do  so  safely;  the  boat  is 
nothin’  but  a  shell,  an’  won’t  take  ye  fur.” 

Parting  under  such  peculiar  circumstances,  neither  of 


64 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

them  knew  what  would  befall  the  other,  or  if  ever  they 
should  meet  again. 

Their  common  perils  and  sufferings  had  thrown  down 
the  barriers  growing  out  of  their  respective  positions,  and 
there  were  tears  in  Geraldine’s  eyes  as  she  felt  the  parting 
grasp  of  the  hand  that  had  been  so  kind  and  helpful. 

As  for  Bridget,  her  sobs  were  audible,  in  which  there 
was  a  curious  mingling  of  blessings  on  the  head  of  her 
mistress  and  anathemas  against  her  enemies. 

Leaning  over  the  water,  Bridget  watched  the  frail  boat, 
with  its  precious  freight,  until  it  disappeared  around  a 
bend  in  the  river. 

Hearing  a  step  back  of  her,  she  turned  round,  beholding 
at  a  few  feet  distant  the  pale  face  and  hollow  eyes,  turned 
directly  toward  her,  of  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  which  looked 
more  like  a  ghost  than  a  living  man. 

Believing  it  to  be  such,  the  terrified  girl  gave  a  loud 
screech,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  healthy,  hardy  life 
tumbled  over  in  a  swoon. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

GASPARDO’S  CONSTERNATION  AND  RAGE, 

As  soon  as  Bridget  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  realize 
her  surroundings,  she  sat  up  and  looked  tremblingly 
around.  But  not  a  trace  could  be  seen  of  the  dread  specter 
— as  she  considered  it — that  had  so  frightened  her. 

Nor  could  a  sound  be  heard  but  the  murmur  of  the  river 
that  glided  past,  upon  whose  waters  the  rays  of  the  moon 
glittered  that  was  shining  so  tranquilly  in  the  heavens 
above. 

Far  from  having  her  apprehensions  allayed,  a  still  more 
deadly  terror  seized  the  girl. 

“  It  was  a  ghost,”  she  muttered.  “Howly  Mother,  de¬ 
find  us!” 

Seizing  the  lantern  and  not  daring  to  casta  glance  around, 
lest  she  should  be  struck  motionless  by  some  vision  of 
terror,  Bridget  began  to  ascend  the  stairs  as  fast  as  her 
trembling  limbs  would  admit. 

She  found  no  difficulty  in  finding  her  way  back  to  the 
place  she  had  quitted  a  few  hours  before,  finding  every¬ 
thing  exactly  as  she  left  it. 

Her  first  move  after  closing  the  door  was  to  endeavor  to 
return  the  secretary  to  its  place  in  front  of  it.  Bat  it  was 
old  and  cumbrous,  and  in  endeavoring  to  push  it  back  one 
of  the  legs  came  off. 

After  various  fruitless  efforts,  to  the  imminent  danger  of 
breaking  the  other  legs,  Bridget  was  obliged  to  relinquish 
her  design, 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


65 


So  contenting  herself  with  propping  it  up  on  one  side, 
which  was  the  best  she  could  do  under  the  circumstances, 
the  girl  went  to  bed ;  being  too  “  complately  wayried  out,” 
to  use  her  own  words,  “  to  drag  one  fut  after  the  other.” 

Crawling  between  the  blankets,  she  fell  into  such  a  deep, 
heavy  slumber  that  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  until  she 
felt  the  grasp  of  a  strong  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

Bridget’s  first  thought,  as  she  looked  up  to  that  dark, 
angry  face,  was  that  her  last  hour  had  come. 

“Mercy,  mercy!”  she  shrieked.  “Don’t  be  afther 
murderin’  a  poor  girl,  that  niver  did  ye  a  bit  of  harm  in 
her  loife  1” 

“What  has  become  of  your  mistress?”  thundered  Gas- 
pardo,  who,  still  retaining  his  grasp  of  the  girl’s  shoulder, 
emphasized  his  words  by  a  series  of  shakes  that  made  her 
teeth  chatter  with  something  besides  fright. 

“Oh!  ow!  ow!  0!-o-o-o-o!”  continued  Bridget,  with  a 
rising  inflection.  “  Must  I  be  murthered  in  me  bed  and 
nobody  hilp  me?” 

“  Will  you  stop  your  howling  and  answer  me?”  responded 
Gaspardo,  with  an  oath.  “Again  I  ask,  where  is  your 
mistress?” 

Fortunately  for  the  part  Bridget  was  to  act,  sleep  and 
terror  had  swept  the  events  of  the  past  night  for  the  time 
being  completely  from  her  mind. 

The  bewilderment  in  her  honest  face  was  too  genuine  to 
be  counterfeited,  as  she  said : 

“  An’  where  shud  she  be  but  in  her  own  room  at  this 
toime  av  the  day?” 

Gaspardo’s  belief  that  the  girl  had  connived  at  Geral¬ 
dine’s  escape  was  evidently  staggered  as  he  looked  at  her. 

“  She  isn’t  in  her  room,  she’s  gone,”  was  the  gloomy  re¬ 
sponse.  “Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  know  nothing 
about  it?” 

The  occurrences  of  the  preceding  night  instantly  flashed 
upon  Bridget’s  mind,  but  she  was  cunning  enough  to  fol¬ 
low  up  her  advantage. 

Turning  toward  the  window,  through  which  the  rays 
of  the  rising  sun  fell  brightly,  Gaspardo  raised  his  hand, 
muttering  hoarsely: 

“  She’s  got  away;  I’d  heve  given  my  right  hand  to  have 
prevented  it.” 

“  Sure,  an’  how  cud  she  get  away,  with  the  dure  locked 
an’  all  the  windy s  nailed  down?”  interposed  Bridget,  with 
an  innocent  air. 

“True  enough,”  exclaimed  Gaspardo,  turning  to  Rattle, 
who  stood  leaning  against  the  door;  “  it’s  a  sheer  impossi¬ 
bility.  She  must  be  secreted  in  the  room:  search  every¬ 
place  and  corner,” 


66 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


Both  men  had  gone  through  every  room,  but  they  now 
commenced  a  still  more  thorough  search. 

Observing  something  peculiar  about  the  secretary,  Gas- 
pardo  approached  it. 

As  he  laid  his  hand  on  it  the  prop  came  out,  and  it  fell 
over  with  a  heavy  crash. 

Though  this  brought  the  place  where  the  secret  door  was 
into  view,  Gaspardo  did  not  at  once  discover  it ;  being,  at 
first,  too  much  startled  at  so  sudden  and  unexpected  an 
occurrence  to  think  of  anything  else. 

But  a  little  reflection  led  him  to  believe  that  it  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  his  sister’s  mysterious  disappearance,  and 
a  thorough  examination  gave  him  the  key  to  it  all. 

“  Here  it  is;  here  is  where  she  got  out!”  cried  Gaspardo, 
as  opening  the  secret  door  he  looked  out  into  the  passage. 
“There  must  be  some  stairs  here.  Let  us  see  where  they 
lead  to.  Get  a  lantern;  it  is  as  dark  as  Egypt.” 

As  Rattle  turned  to  obey  this  order,  he  stumbled  against 
the  lantern  that  had  been  used  the  preceding  night,  Bridget 
having  brought  it  back  with  her. 

Hastily  lighting  it,  the  two  men,  forgetting  everything 
else  in  their  eagerness  to  follow  up  this  clew,  disappeared 
through  the  secret  door. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Bridget  commenced  dressing 
with  the  utmost  dispatch. 

“  They’ve  gone,  the  murtherin’ thaves !  bad  luck  go  with 
’em !  Hiven  send  that  the  poor,  swate  leddy  is  too  fur  away 
fur  thim  to  git  howld  av  her,  an’  git  me  safe  out  av  this. 
Now’s  me  chance,  if  I’m  ever  to  git  clare  av  ’em.  ” 

Bridget  had  tied  on  her  hat,  and  was  huddling  together 
a  few  of  her  “  duds,”  as  she  called  them,  when  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  dark-looking  object  in  the  doorway. 

It  was  old  Prue,  who  stood  regarding  her  with  a  suspi¬ 
cious  and  sinister  roll  to  her  eyes. 

“Humph !  so  ye’s going  to  leave  us?” 

Bridget  took  a  critical  survey  of  the  speaker,  whose  form, 
though  strong  and  wiry  for  her  age,  she  felt  was  no  match 
for  hers. 

Being  confident,  in  a  hand-to-hand  tussle — which  was  all 
that  she  had  to  fear— that  she  would  come  out  victor,  she 
said,  boldly: 

“Yes,  I  be;  an’  I  ain’t  none  too  sorry,  aither.” 

“  Did  Marse  Gaspardo  say  ye  could  go?” 

“Not  being  a  Hottentot  or  nagur,  I  didn’t  ask  him,”  re¬ 
torted  Bridget,  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  “He  ain’t  no 
masther  av  mine.  I  hired  out  to  Muster  Bayard  to  take 
care  av  the  babby,  an’  now  that  its  ma  has  tuck  it  away,  I 
hain’t  no  call  to  stay  ony  longer.” 

♦‘That’s  all  ye  know  ’bout  it,”  responded  Prue,  darkly. 


,4.  WIFE 'S  CRIME. 


67 


“The  baby  ’ill  be  brung  back,  and  its  ma,  too.  Marse 
Gaspardo’s  boun’  to  ketch  ’em.  Dey  ain’t  gom  to  slip  out 
of  his  hands  so  easy,  you  jist  bet  yer  life  on  that;  you  take 
my  ’vice,  and  stop  where  ye  am.  If  Marse  Gaspardo  comes 
back,  an’  finds  ye  gone,  it’ll  be  the  wuss  for  ye.” 

“  It’ll  be  the  worse  fur  me  if  I  stay,  I’m  thinkin’,”  was 
the  girl’s  inward  reflection,  as,  seizing  her  bundle,  she 
turned  to  the  door. 

Then  dropping  an  ironical  courtesy  to  Prue,  whose  coun¬ 
tenance  showed  plainly  her  anger,  she  added,  aloud  : 

“  I’m  sorry  to  refuse  yer  pressin’  invitation,  ma’am.  Ye 
are  sech  a  plisant,  agraerble  person  that  me  heart’s  quite 
broke  at  the  thought  of  partin’  from  ye.  But  I  wouldn’t 
live  a  day  longer  here  fur  me  weight  in  goold.  Till  Muster 
Gaspardo  that  I  thought  I’d  save  him  the  trouble  of  blindin’ 
me  eyes  an’  lavin'  me  in  some  strange  place.  That  now 
the  misthress  is  gone,  I’m  too  glad  to  git  away  mesilf  to 
till  av  his  tratement  av  his  own  flesh  an’  blood,  which  was 
more  loike  a  wild  Injin  than  a  brother.  So  good-bye  t’  ye.” 

In  the  meantime,  Gaspardo  and  Rattle  had  taken  them¬ 
selves  down  the  three  long  flights  of  stairs  which  led  to  the 
river. 

Strong  in  the  hope  of  reclaiming  his  prisoner,  the  former 
stared  blankly  at  the  water  that  oarred  his  further  prog¬ 
ress. 

“  She  can’t  swim;  and  then  she  had  the  child  with  her,” 
he  said,  apparently  as  much  at  a  loss  as  ever. 

But  Rattle’s  keener  eyes  had  detected  the  marks  that  the 
boat  made,  as  it  was  dragged  to  and  lowered  to  the  water. 

“  Do  you  see  that,  sir,”  he  said  to  Gaspardo,  “  and  those 
fresh  foot-prints  ?  There’s  been  some  heavy  thing  dragged 
along  here;  a  boat  of  some  kind,  I  should  say,  by  the 
looks.” 

Gaspardo’s  face  darkened. 

“She  must  be  pursued,”  he  cried  with  an  oath,  “She 
can’t  have  got  very  far,  with  the  child  to  carry.  Which 
way  do  you  suppose  she  has  gone,  up  or  down?” 

Rattle  mused  a  moment. 

“Was  she  used  to  rowing?” 

“  Never  used  the  oars  in  her  life,  that  I  know  of.” 

“Then,  most  likely,  she  went  down  the  river,  and  not 
very  far  by  boat.  We  could  be  surest  of  ketchin’  her  by 
takin’  a  direct  course  south,  on  horseback,  than  any  other 
way.” 

This  sounded  very  plausible,  and  they  quickly  retraced 
their  way. 

There  were  two  fleet  horses  in  the  stable,  and  these  were 
soon  saddled  and  at  the  door. 


68  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

As  Gaspardo  was  about  to  mount  his,  old  Prue  touched 
his  arm. 

“  The  gal’s  gone.” 

In  his  eagerness  to  recover  his  escaped  prisoner  he  had 
forgotten  all  about  Bridget. 

He  turned  an  impatient  look  Upon  the  speaker. 

“  What  girl?’ 

“The  nuss-gal.” 

Gaspardo's  countenance  changed.  He  realized  the  im¬ 
prudence  of  allowing  the  girl  to  be  at  large  at  this  time, 
especially  if  any  way  inclined  to  be  communicative. 

“Gone,  is  she?  That’s  bad.  I  meant  to  have  had  her 
locked  up.  Pid  she  say  anything  when  she  left?” 

“She  talked  sassy  enough,”  responded  the  old  negress, 
sulkily;  “  she  was  a  sassy  piece,  anyway,  sidin’  with  her 
mistress  from  the  fust.” 

“  Which  way  did  she  go?” 

“I  do’  know.  She  went  down  the  main  avenue,  an’ 
that’s  the  last  I  seed  of  her.” 

“Well,  it  can’t  be  helped.  I  have  more  important  busi¬ 
ness  to  attend  to  now.  W e  may  come  across  her.  Come, 
Rattle.” 

And  urging  their  horses  to  their  utmost  speed,  the  two 
men  disappeared  amid  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
with  which  the  place  abounded. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  FUGITIVE. 

We  will  now  return  to  Geraldine,  whom  we  left  gliding 
down  the  river  in  a  boat,  whose  frail  timbers  were  all  that 
lay  between  her  and  a  watery  grave. 

As  she  glanced  up  at  the  grim-looking  building,  now  so 
high  above  her  head  that  she  had  to  look  straight  up  at  it, 
she  clasped  her  babe  to  her  bosom,  her  heart  overflowing 
with  devout  thankfulness  at  her  escape  from  the  scene  of 
so  much  wretchedness  and  peril. 

Not  a  light  could  be  seen ;  solitary  and  stern  it  frowned 
darkly  upon  her,  as  though  cognizant  of  the  terrible 
tragedy  that  had  been  enacted  within  its  walls. 

With  a  slight  shiver,  Caused  by  something  more  than  the 
chilliness  of  the  night,  Geraldine  drew  her  mantle  more 
closely  around  her,  glad  when  a  bend  in  the  river  hid  it 
from  her  sight. 

“God  grant  that  I  may  never  see  that  dreadful  place 
again,”  she  thought,  “or  anybody  belonging  to  it.” 

Following  Bridget's  advice,  she  kept  as  near  to  the  banks 
of  the  river  as  she  safely  could,  her  heart  growing  lighter 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


69 


and  lighter  as  the  current  bore  her  further  and  further 
away. 

It  was  her  intention  to  cross  the  river  when  she  got  to 
where  there  was  no  danger  of  her  being  seen  from  Hunter’s 
Lodge,  whose  elevated  position  gave  it  an  extended  view, 
especially  in  that  direction.  • 

If  pursued,  as  she  knew  she  would  be,  there  would  be 
less  danger  of  her  being  taken. 

But  very  fortunately,  as,  if  she  had  been  further  from 
the  shore  her  death  would  have  been  certain,  just  as  she 
was  about  to  make  the  attempt  the  boat  sprung  a  leak,  fill¬ 
ing  so  rapidly  that  she  barely  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
land. 

Five  minutes  later,  standing  on  the  shore,  she  saw  it 
sink  beneath  the  water. 

Exhausted  by  the  effort  it  had  cost  her,  as  well  as  chilled 
by  the  water  that  had  wet  her  feet  and  garments,  Geral¬ 
dine  seated  herself  beneath  a  tree  and  began  to  wring  out 
the  dripping  folds  of  her  dress. 

Then  she  looked  around. 

There  was  no  house  or  any  signs  of  life  visible  in  any 
direction.  There  was  nothing  but  an  extended  sweep  of 
hills  and  depressions,  broken  here  and  there  by  rocks  and 
clumps  of  trees. 

It  was  her  aim  to  reach  some  town  on  the  river,  which 
would  afford  her  an  opportunity  of  traveling,  either  by 
boat  or  car,  she  did  not  care  in  what  direction,  if  it  only 
took  her  away  from  her  cruel  enemies. 

Unfortunately  for  the  carrying  out  of  this  plan,  Geral¬ 
dine  had  been  kept  so  closely  that  she  was  entirely  ignorant 
as  to  whither  to  direct  her  steps. 

She  knew  that  the  nearest  village  from  Hunter’s  Lodge 
was  up  the  river.  It  was  nearly  three  miles  distant,  and 
rarely  visited  by  any  of  its  inmates,  Mr.  Bayard  getting 
all  his  supplies  direct  from  New  York. 

But  she  was  too  far  down  the  river  now  for  her  to  take 
the  cars  from  that  place,  even  if  it  had  not  been  attended 
with  too  much  danger  for  her  to  attempt  it.  ' 

So  her  only  resource  was  to  go  as  directly  south  as  pos¬ 
sible. 

Knowing  that  all  the  large  towns  were  on  the  river,  she 
would  have  kept  alongside  of  it  but  for  the  fear  that  if  search 
was  made  for  her,  it  would  be  likely  to  be  in  that  vicinity. 

So  she  struck  across  the  fields  away  from  it,  but  still 
taking  a  southerly  direction. 

Geraldine  avoided  the  highway  for  the  same  reason. 

At  first,  nerved  on  by  the  fears  that  would  not  let  her 

rest,  she  walked  briskly  along,  scarcely  feeling  the  weight 


70  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

of  the  babe  in  her  arms,  except  to  feel  what  a  precious 
weight  it  was. 

But  weak  from  all  the  hardships  she  had  undergone,  her 
footsteps  soon  began  to  lag,  and  she  was  obliged  to  make 
frequent  pauses  for  rest.  Still,  as  she  persistently  pushed 
ahead,  her  progress,  though  slow,  was  considerable,  and 
she  would  have  been  greatly  encouraged  had  she  not  felt 
her  strength  gradually  giving  way. 

To  add  to  her  troubles,  Isabel  began  to  fret  and  cry,  from 
the  combined  discomforts  of  hunger  and  cold,  together 
with  the  constrained  position  in  which  she  was  held. 

The  suddenness  with  which  the  boat  had  sprung  a  leak 
had  prevented  Geraldine  securing  the  food  that  Bridget 
had  provided,  so  that  she  had  none  to  give  her. 

So,  soothing  the  little  creature  as  best  she  could,  she 
walked  wearily  on,  having  now  struck  into  a  narrow  wood- 
path  that  ran  the  other  side  of  a  fence  that  separated  it 
from  the  highway. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ventured  so  near  to  the  pub¬ 
lic  road,  she  making  this  change  in  the  hope  of  reaching 
some  farm-house,  where  she  might  procure  a  drink  of  milk 
for  her  babe,  it  being  now  near  morning. 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  she  strained  her  weary  gaze  in 
every  direction;  not  a  house  was  to  be  seen. 

Finally,  too  faint  and  weary  to  go  further,  she  seated 
herself  upon  a  stone,  forgetting  her  own  peril  in  her  anxi¬ 
eties  for  her  child,  whose  cries  had  subsided  into  moans 
that  went  straight  to  the  mother’s  heart. 

“  My  poor  baby,”  she  murmured,  “have  we  escaped  so 
many  perils  to  die  of  hunger  and  cold  in  these  dreary 
woods?” 

The  dawn  was  just  reddening  in  the  east,  and  soon  the 
sun  arose,  clear  and  bright,  and  casting  a  cheering  radiance 
on  everything  around  her. 

But  its  rays  brought  to  poor  Geraldine  nothing  but  fear 
and  gloom. 

“They  have  probably  missed  me  by  this  time,”  she 
thought,  “  and  I  must  not  linger  here.  If  I  only  had  some¬ 
thing  to  allay  this  tormenting  thirst.  ” 

As  this  thought  passed  through  her  mind,  to  her  great 
joy,  she  heard  the  murmuring  sound  of  a  brook  near  by. 

Going  to  it,  she  scooped  up  some  of  the  water  with  her 
hands,  drinking  eagerly  of  it  and  giving  some  to  Isabel. 

Feeling  considerably  refreshed,  she  went  on;  though  ob¬ 
liged  to  pause  for  rest  many  times,  she  made  but  a  slow 
progress. 

The  sun  was  now  high  in  the  heavens,  and  not  a  house 
visible,  when  a  sturdy,  tow-headed  boy  came  whistling 
along  the  road* 


71 


A  WIFE'S  ClilMZ 

Geraldine’s  hopes  revived  at  this  sight. 

Going  to  the  fence,  she  called  to  him. 

Suddenly  stopping,  the  boy  stared  with  Open  eyes  and 
mouth  at  “the  pretty  lady,”  as  he  afterward  called  her. 

“Can  you  tell  me  where  the  nearest  station,  steamboat 
landing  or  ferry  is?” 

‘ 1  The  landin’  an’  ferry  is  a  good  three  mile  from  here. 
You’ll  bev  to  cross  the  river  to  git  the  cars.” 

Feeling  that  she  could  not  go  half  or  quarter  of  that  dis¬ 
tance  without  food  and  rest,  Geraldine  leaned  heavily 
against  the  fence  by  which  she  stood. 

There  was  something  in  the  honest  face  of  the  lad  that 
won  her  confidence. 

“  That  is  a  long  way,  and  I  am  very  tired.  Can  you  tell 
me  of  some  house  near  by,  where  the  people  are  kind  and 
good,  and  where  my  baby  and  I  can  get  some  food  and  rest 
a  little?” 

“  A’nt  Jane’s  the  kindest  body  I  know  on,”  responded 
the  boy,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  “but  she  lives  a  mile 
back,  on  the  river.  Mr.  Burchard’s  house  ain’t  fur  off; 
vou  kin  see  it  when  you  git  down  to  the  turn.  He  ain't 
bad,  the  old  man  ain’t,  ’cept  when  he  gits  riled,  an’  his  wife 
is  tiptop.  She'll  give  you  somethin’  to  eat.  Le’  me  hold 
the  baby  while  you  get  over  the  fence.  Wait,  an’  I’ll  let 
down  the  bars.” 

Geraldine  passed  out  into  the  road,  the  two  walking 
along  together,  her  guide  carrying  the  baby,  as  she  was 
very  glad  to  have  him  do,  it  being  only  with  difficulty  that 
she  kept  upon  her  feet. 

“  How  pretty ’tis— most  as  pretty  as  you  be,”  said  the 
boy,  looking  up  at  Geraldine  with  such  a  look  of  honest 
admiration  in  his  honest  blue  eyes  that  it  called  a  faint 
smile  to  her  lips. 

“  What  is  your  name?”  she  said,  placing  her  hand  lightly 
on  the  unkempt  locks. 

“  Robert — they  call  me  Bob,  for  short.” 

“Well,  Robert,  you  look  like  a  kind,  good  boy.  You 
wouldn’t  do  me  any  harm,  I  am  sure?” 

The  boy  looked  amazed. 

“Of  course  not.  Nobody  could  harm  ye.” 

Geraldine  shook  her  head. 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that.  I  am  try  ing  to  get  away 
from  some  bad  and  cruel  men.  Should  they  come  along 
and  ask  you  if  you  had  seen  me,  as  they  may,  it  might 
do  me  a  great  deal  of  harm  if  you  should  tell  them  where 
I  am.” 

The  boy  was  quick-witted  enough  to  take  in  the  purport 

of  this. 


72 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“  I  won’t  tell,  I  won’t  tell  anybody,”  he  replied,  with  an 
earnestness  that  showed  that  he  meant  what  he  said. 

“There’s  the  house,”  he  added,  pointing  to  a  pleasant 
looking  farm-house,  half-hidden  by  trees  and  shrubbery. 
“And  there’s  the  old  man  at  the  well,  drawin’ a  pail  o’ 
Water.” 

They  were  standing  on  a  little  eminence,  and  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  Bob  cast  a  searching  look  back¬ 
ward. 

“  There’s  two  men  on  horseback,  yander.” 

“Where,  where?”  cried  Geraldine,  turning  her  eyes  in 
the  same  direction. 

‘  ‘  There,  on  the  cross-road.  Don’t  you  see  ’em?  They  are 
cornin’  down  the  hill,  lickety-cut !” 

“Merciful  Father!”  ejaculated  Geraldine,  trembling  in 
every  limb,  “  it  is,  it  must  be  my  cruel  enemies !  How  can 
I  escape;  what  can  I  do?” 

“Don’t  you  be  none  afeard,  ma’am,”. responded  Bob, 
coolly;  /’ll  ’tend  to  em.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to- 
walk  into  that  house,  an’  git  somethin’  t’  eat.  Tell  the 
folks  Bob  Martin  sent  ye,  an’  th'ey’11  show  ye  every  Men¬ 
tion.  ” 

Opening  the  gate  Bob  put  the  baby  in  its  mother’s  arms, 
and  then  walked  up  the  road  toward  where  the  two  horse¬ 
men  had  been  seen,  but  who  were  now  temporarily  hidden 
from  view  by  the  friendly  shadow  of  some  intervening 
trees. 

With  a  rushing  sound  in  her  ears,  a  mist  before  her  eyes, 
Geraldine  staggered,  rather  than  walked,  up  the  path  to 
the  house. 

So  that  when  the  master  of  it  walked  up  to  the  porch, 
with  the  dripping  pail  in  his  hand,  he  stared  in  amaze¬ 
ment  at  the  heap  that  lay  there,  so  limp  and  motionless. 

“Good  gracious  me!  mother!  mother!”  he  shouted, 
“  come  here,  quick!  Here’s  a  woman  and  a  baby,  dead  or 
dying;  I  don’t  know  which.” 

In  the  meantime  little  Isabel,  having  rolled  away  from 
those  nerveless  arms,  set  up  a  loud  and  plaintive  wail. 

These  combined  outcries  brought  to  the  door  a  pleasant¬ 
faced,  matronly-looking  woman,  whose  experienced  eye 
soon  took  in  the  situation. 

Bidding  her  eldest  girl  pick  up  the  baby,  by  her  hus¬ 
band’s  help,  Geraldine  was  soon  transferred  from  the  porch 
to  the  neat,  cozy-looking  bedroom  opening  out  of  the 
“  spare  room.” 

Breaking  from  its  confinement,  the  long,  dark  hair  fell 
around  the  beautiful  face,  making  it  look  still  more  white 
and  deathly. 

“  I  swow,  if  I  don’t  believe  she’s  dead,  wife,”  said  Jfc 


A  WIFE 'S  CRIME,  n 

Burchard,  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  watching  that 
individual’s  energetic  efforts  to  restore  consciousness. 

Drawing  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  Geraldine  now  opened 
her  eyes,  fixing  them  with  a  frightened  air  upon  Mr.  Bur- 
chard’s  round,  rubicund  face. 

“  No,  she  ain’t  dead,”  responded  the  good  woman.  “Go 
away,  father,  do.  ’Tain’t  no  place  for  men-folks.  She’s 
cornin’  to,  and  will  be  frightened  to  see  so  many  strange 
faces. 

“Tom  and  Sammy,  you  go  out,  an’  see  that  you  don’t 
make  a  bit  of  noise.  Salmanthy,  you  kin  stay  an’  help 
me.” 

Geraldine  relapsed  into  half-unconsciousness,  while  kind 
and  gentle  hands  removed  the  torn  and  drabbled  dress, 
whose  costliness  called  forth  many  an  exclamation  of  ad¬ 
miration  and  wonder. 

“All  silk  an’  velvet,  just  see,  ma!”  said  Salmanthy,  hold¬ 
ing  it  up. 

“An’  the  shoes  are  kid,  lined  with  satin,”  said  the 
mother,  as  she  took  them  off;  “  all  cut  they  be  an’  torn,  as 
if  she  had  walked  a  long  way.  Poor,  pretty  dear !  I  won¬ 
der  who  she  kin  be.  She  belongs  to  some  rich  family, 
that’s  certain.” 

At  this  moment  Geraldine  opened  her  eyes  again,  look¬ 
ing  up  appealingly  into  the  kind  face  that  was  bending 
over  her. 

“  You  won’t  let  them  take  me  away?” 

At  first  the  woman  looked  puzzled,  then  suspecting, 
from  the  wild  glitter  in  the  eyes,  that  her  mind  was  wan¬ 
dering,  said,  soothingly: 

“  No,  no,  dearie,  there  sha’n’t  nobody  take  you  away.” 

“  Where’s  my  baby?” 

“  Oh,  baby’s  all  right.  Hepsey’s  got  her  in  the  kitchen, 
givin’  her  some  bread  an’  milk,  an’  it  would  do  your  heart 
good  to  see  her  eat.  Hepsey  is  the  best  hand  I  know  of  to 
take  care  of  babies.  Now,  you  must  eat  somethin’. 

4  v  Salmanthy,  go  into  the  kitchen  and  git  me  a  hot, 
strong  cup  of  coffee,  with  plenty  of  cream  an’  sugar  in  it, 
an’  some  of  that  new  white  bread  an’  fresh  butter.” 

The  coffee  was  delicious,  and  the  bread  and  butter  the 
sweetest  that  Geraldine  had  ever  eaten,  or  else  they 
seemed  so  from  her  long  fast,  and  she  partook  of  them 
with  a  relish  that  was  very  satisfactory  to  her  kind 
hostess. 

Then,  too  tired  and  weak  even  to  think  connectedly, 
she  fell  into  a  deep  slumber. 

In  the  meantime  Bob  pursued  his  way  up  the  road,  feel¬ 
ing  bigger,  stronger,  and  of  more  importance  than  he  ever 
felt  before  in  his  life,  with  the  thought  of  being  installed 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


protector  of  the  pretty  lady,  whose  lovely  face  and  gentle 
words  and  ways  had  made  such  a  strong  impression  on  his 
boy-heart. 

“  Gorry !”  he  exclaimed,  “  if  she  don’t  jest  look  like  one 
of  them  pictures  that  I  see  in  the  store-winders  when  I 
went  to  ’Kipsie.” 

His  eye  catching  the  glitter  of  something  lying  by  the 
roadside,  he  picked  it  up. 

It  proved  to  be  a  beautifully  embossed  portemonnaie  full 
of  bank  bills  and  gold. 

“It  must  be  hers,”  he  said,  thrusting  it  under  his  torn 
jacket.  “  I’ll  keep  it  and  give  it  to  her.” 

At  this  moment  the  two  horsemen  came  in  sight. 

Planting  himself  by  the  roadside,  with  his  back  toward 
them,  with  the  air  of  one  either  entirely  unconscious  or  in¬ 
different  to  their  movements,  Bob  awaited  their  approach. 

‘  ‘  Ef  they  ask  me  anythin’,  ef  I  don’t  put  them  on  the 
wrong  scent,  my  name  ain’t  Bob  Martin!”  was  his  inward 
reflection. 

The  taller  of  the  two  horsemen  drew  his  rein  as  soon  as 
he  saw  him. 

“My  lad,  have  you  seen  a  lady  on  the  road  anywhere 
about  here,  this  morning?” 

Bob  honored  the  speaker  with  a  prolonged  stare,  as  if 
desirous  of  knowing  him  again  when  he  saw  him. 

“  Was  it  a  real  pretty  lady  with  black  eyes  and  hair?” 

“  Yes.  Tell  me  where  you  saw  her,  and  you  shall  have 
this,”  said  Gaspardo,  holding  up  a  silver  dollar. 

“Did  she  have  a  baby  in  her  arms?” 

“Yes;  yes!”  was  the  impatient  response;  “that  is  the 
one.  Where  is  she?” 

“I  don’t  know  where  she  is  now,”  drawled  the  boy, 
speaking  with  a  slowness  and  deliberation  in  strong  con¬ 
trast  to  the  fierce  impatience  in  the  look  and  tone  of  his 
questioner.  “  I  see  such  a  lookin’  lady  ’bout  three  miles 
down  the  road.  She  asked  me  how  fur  it  was  to  the 
landin’,  an’  I  said - ” 

The  men  did  not  wait  for  the  speaker  to  finish  his  sen¬ 
tence,  but  urged  their  horses  forward  in  the  direction  to¬ 
ward  which  the  lad  pointed. 

Bob  picked  up  the  coin  that  was  flung  at  his  feet,  a  know¬ 
ing  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  rubbed  the  dust  off  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket. 

“  I  bet  a  cooky  that  they’ll  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to 
stop  at  Mr,  Burchard’s,  but  I  guess  I’ll  jest  foller  on  an’ 
see.” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


75 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

HUNTED  DOWN. 

As  Bob  reached  Mr.  Burchard’s  house,  to  his  great  satis¬ 
faction  no  one  was  visible  except  Mr.  Burchard,  who  was 
leaning  against  the  gate. 

“How’s  the  lady  I  sent  ye?” 

The  man  looked  surprised  at  this  query. 

“Did  you  send  her?  Where  on  earth  did  she  come 
from?” 

“  I  do’  know  more’n  the  man  in  the  moon.  I  found  her 
a  piece  back,  settin’  by  the  roadside  clean  tuckered  out. 
Said  she  hadn’t  had  nothin’  t’eat  sence  yisterday ;  so  I  sent 
her  to  you.  Knowed  you’d  be  glad  to  give  her  a  good 
turn.” 

“Sartin,  sartin,  my  boy;  glad  you  did.  I  found  her 
tumbled  down  in  a  heap  on  the  'horeh.  I  declare  for’t  ef  I 
didn’t  think  she  was  dead  when  I  looked  at  her.  Wife  an’ 
me  got  her  on  the  bed,  an’  she’s  fast  asleep  njw.” 

“  When  she  wakes,  tell  her  that  I’m  goin’  to  get  Uncle 
Jake’s  team  an’  take  her  to  the  landin’ to-night;  there’s 
where  she  wants  to  go.  Now  you  take  good  care  on  her. 
She’s  somebody,  you’d  better  believe;  a  real  lady,  ef 
there  ever  was  one.  And  a  word  in  your  ear,  old  man. 
Don't  let  on  to  nobody  that  she’s  there.  She’s  layin’  low, 
D’ye  understand?” 

These  words,  and  the  knowing  wink  that  accompanied 
them,  combined  to  mystify  Burchard  more  than  ever, 
whose  head  was  none  of  the  clearest. 

“  You  don’t  say  so?” 

“Yes,  but  I  do,  though,”  responded  Bob,  moving  along. 
“I’ve  got  to  go  to  the  ‘  Corners  ’  to  help  Silas  Badger  haul 
logs ;  when  I  git  back  I’ll  tell  you  more ;  you  stan’  by  the 
poor  lady;  you  won’t  lose  nothin’  by’t,  now  I  tell  you.” 

Perhaps  Bob  had  in  view  the  purse,  heavy  with  gold, 
and  whose  weight  he  could  feel  as  he  spoke,  but  he  was  too 
shrewd  to  give  any  information  of  his  “  find,”  or  let  it  pass 
out  of  his  hands. 

“When  I  come  to  take  her  to  the  landin’  Ill  give  it  to 
her,”  was  his  inward  reflection,  his  heart  swelling  with 
boyish  pride  at  the  thought  of  the  consequence  it  would 
give  him  in  her  eyes. 

In  the  meantime,  Gaspardo  and  Rattle  pursued  their 
rapid  way  to  the  next  village,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for 
the  person  described  by  Bob,  but  without  coming  across 
any  one  in  the  least  resembling  her. 

After  making  sure  that  there  was  no  one  at  the  ferry  or 
landing,  Gaspardo  left  his  companion  at  the  former  place 
^knowing  that  no  boat  left  until  evening— and  carefully 


76 


A  WIFE ’S  CRIME. 


retraced  his  way,  being  strongly  impressed  with  the  feel¬ 
ing  that  he  had  either  gone  in  the  wrong  direction  or  missed 
the  object  of  his  search  some  way. 

On  reaching  Mr.  Burchard’s  house,  he  saw  a  girl  at  the 
gate  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  whose  appearance  arrested 
his  attention. 

“  Is  that  child  your  little  sister?”  he  asked. 

“No,  sir,”  said  the  girl,  bashfully,  “it  belongs  to  the 
strange  lady.” 

“  What  strange  lady?” 

“  The  one  that  come  this  morning.” 

“So  there’s  a  strange  lady  with  you?”  continued  Gas- 
pardo,  speaking  in  the  softest  of  tones,  but  his  eyes  gleam¬ 
ing  with  exultation,  as  he  spoke.  “  Is  she  pretty,  with 
dark  eyes  and  hair,  like  this  little  one  here?” 

“  Yes,  sir.” 

“Where  is  she  now?”  said  Gaspardo,  speaking  in  the 
same  soft,  silky  tone,  slipping  a  piece  of  silver  in  the  girl’s 
hand. 

The  girl  examined  the  coin  with  an  expression  of  pleased 
interest,  dropping  a  courtesy  of  thanks,  as  she  said : 

“She’s  in  the  ‘spare  bedroom’  asleep,  so  mam  said.” 

“So  she  is  in  the  ‘spare  bedroom,’  asleep?  She  is  very 
tired,  I  dare  say.  You  are  a  good  girl,  a  very  good  girl, 
and  won’t  disturb  her,  I  know.  Is  that  your  father  who  is 
smoking  on  the  porch?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Ask  him  to  step  down  to  the  gate,  a  moment.  And 
mind,”  he  smiled,  as  the  girl  turned  to  obey,  lifting  up  his 
forefinger  to  emphasize  his  words,  “  mind  that  you  don’t 
disturb  the  strange  lady.” 

Gaspardo’s  position  was  admirably  adapted  to  secure  his 
object,  which  was  to  avoid  being  seen  by  any  one  inside, 
there  being  an  abundance  of  shrubbery  near  the  gate,  and 
a  large  tree  just  outside  of  it,  in  the  shadow  of  which  he 
stood. 

Pipe  in  hand,  Mr.  Burchard  came  down  the  path  to  the 
gate. 

“I  wish  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  kindness  and  hu¬ 
manity  in  taking  in  and  caring  for  my  poor,  unhappy 
sister.” 

The  look  of  subdued  sorrow  in  Gaspardo’s  face,  as  he  said 
this,  would  have  deceived  a  shrewder  man  than  the  old 
farmer. 

“  So  the  sick  lady  is  your  sister?  Mighty  glad  to  hear  it. 
The  poor  critur  needs  someone  to  look  arter  her,  if  anv  one. 
do.” 

“Very  true,  sir,”  said  Gaspardo,  in  the  same  sad  an  i 
gentle  tone  5  “  nnd  X  consider  it  my  duty,  m  her  brother,  ty 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


77 


take  charge  of  her.  She  is  entirely  out  of  her  mind,  as  I 
suppose  you  saw.’' 

“You  don’t  say?  Wife  said  she  seemed  sort  o’  light¬ 
headed,  but  I  didn’t  mistrust  ’twas  anythin’  ser’us.  How 
long  has  she  been  so?” 

“  Ever  since  the  oirth  of  her  last  child.  Sometimes  she 
is  so  wild  and  furious  as  to  be  dangerous.  ” 

“  Land  o’  Goshen!”  ejaculated  Burchard,  in  tones  of  pity 
and  astonishment.  “An’  she  looks  an’  speaks  so  gentle. 
Though  I  minded  that  her  eyes  had  a  kind  o’  wild  glitter 
in  ’em.  But  won’t  you  come  in?  She’s  been  asleep,  but  I 
think  she’s  waked  up  now.” 

“  Oh,  no.  I  don’t  want  you  to  mention  my  name  to 
her,  or  let  her  know  that  I  have  been  here.  It  would  throw 
her  into  such  a  state  of  excitement  that  we  could  do  noth¬ 
ing  with  her.  You  know  how  it  is  with  the  insane,  they 
always  fear  and  hate  their  best  friends?” 

The  wily  man  studied  Burchard’s  face,  as  he  said  this, 
being  very  well  satisfied  with  the  effect  he  was  produc¬ 
ing. 

“  Ay,  to  be  sure,  sir.  I  remember  when  Will  Taylor  was 
took  crazy,  he  wouldn’t  let  his  wife  or  any  of  his  folks 
come  nigh  him,  and  he  was  so  fond  of  them  afore.” 

“  That  is  precisely  the  case  with  my  poor  sister;  she  ran 
away  from  home  under  the  impression  that  I  was  her 
worst  enemy,  and  seeking  her  hurt.  I  have  been  greatly 
distressed  in  mind,  fearing  that  she  had  come  to  some 
harm.  Now  the  question  is,  how  to  get  her  back  again, 
which  must  be  done  without  her  suspecting  my  agency  in 
the  matter.  You  spoke  about  your  wife;  will  you  please 
tell  her  what  I  have  told  you,  and  bring  her  down  here,  I 
want  to  talk  with  her.” 

Gaspardo  maintained  his  position  under  the  shadow  of 
the  tree  during  Burchard’s  absence,  his  cheek  flushed  and 
his  heart  beating  fast  under  the  stimulus  of  the  exciting 
game  he  was  playing. 

There  was  a  grave,  startled  look  in  Mrs.  Burchard’s  eyes 
as  she  looked  at  him.  Her  woman’s  instinct  warned  her 
that  there  was  something  wrong,  though  she  was  unable 
to  perceive  in  what  direction  it  lay. 

Gaspardo  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  would  have  more  diffi¬ 
culty  with  her  than  her  husband,  but  he  trusted  in  the 
powers  of  persuasion  at  his  command,  whenever  he  chose 
to  exert  them,  and  not  vainly. 

“I  must  repeat  to  you,  madam,  the  thanks  proffered 
to  your  husband  for  the  kindness  you  have  extended  to  my 
poor  sister,  whose  mental  condition  you  were  clear-sighted 
enough  to  perceive  at  the  first.” 

“I  don’t  want  any  thanks,”  saicl  the  woman,  a  little 


78 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


coldly;  “  I’ve  only  treated  the  poor  thing  as  I’d  like  to  tie 
treated  if  I  was  in  her  situation.” 

“Very  true;  and  it  does  you  great  credit.  Very  few 
are  actuated  by  so  kind  and  Christian  a  spirit,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.” 

This  bland  and  genial  tone  and  manner  dissipated  much 
of  the  instinctive  distrust  that  she  had  conceived  of  the 
speaker;  still,  there  were  some  doubts  remaining,  and 
which  impelled  her  to  say : 

“  I  thought  the  poor  lady  a  little  flighty,  but  I  judged 
it  to  be  more  from  weariness  and  trouble  than  anything 

else.” 

Gaspardo  shook  his  head  with  a  melancholy  air. 

“  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  But  the  fact  is,  the  trouble 
she  speaks  of  exists  only  in  her  imagination.  Gentle  as 
my  sister  seems,  she  is  not  only  incurably,  but  danger¬ 
ously  mad ;  so  much  so  as  to  render  it  unsafe  for  her  to  be 
at  large.” 

Though  evidently  impressed  by  these  words,  Mrs.  Bur- 
chard  was  silent. 

Displeased  at  this,  her  husband  now  said: 

“Wife,  you  know  you  said  yourself  that  you  thought 
she  was  out  of  her  mind.  The  gentleman  speaks  very  fair 
an’  honest,  an1,  being  her  brother,  ought  to  know.” 

There  was  a  strong  family  resemblance  between  Geral¬ 
dine  and  her  brother,  and,  though  their  faces  were,  in  ex¬ 
pression,  so  widely  different,  it  was  not  so  apparent  in  the 
expression  that  Gaspardo’s  countenance  now  wore. 

This  resemblance  had  a  marked  effect  on  Mrs.  Burchard. 

“  I  don’t  doubt  what  the  gentleman  says,  my  dear,”  she 
said,  apologetically.  “  But  I  can’t  help  feelin’  sorry  for 
the  poor  young  thing.” 

“Such  sentiments  do  you  honor,  my  dear  madam,” 
responded  Gaspardo,  blandly.  “I  feel  that  I  cannot  be 
too  thankful  that  she  has  fallen  into  such  kind  and  worthy 
hands.  The  greatest  service  you  can  do  her  is  to  assist 
me  in  returning  her  to  her  home,  where  she  will  be  sur 
rounded  with  all  the  care  and  comforts  that  her  unhappy 
condition  demands.  Now,  the  question  is,  how  is  this  to 
be  done? — it  being  necessary  that  there  should  be  none  of 
the  excitement  and  alarm  that  would  act  so  unfavorably 
upon  her.  Did  she  speak  of  where  she  intended  to  go?” 

“Yes,  sir ;  she  seems  very  anxious  to  get  away,  an’  spoke 
about  taking  the  boat,  though  I  don’t  mind  that  she  said 
what  place  she  was  goin’  to.  She  asked  me  if  I  couldn’t 
get  some  team  to  take  her  to  the  landin’.” 

“  That  will  give  us  just  the  opportunity  we  want.  You 
tell  her  that  you  have  secured  a  conveyance,  and  I  will  bring 
or  send  round  a  carriage,  and  so  take  her  away  as  quietly 


A  WIPE ' 8  CRIMP, 


w 

and  ns  comfortably  as  possible.  By  assisting  me  in  the 
matter,  you  will  not  only  earn  my  gratitude,  but  a  liberal 
compensation  for  all  your  trouble.” 

Mr.  Burchard  did  not  wait  for  his  wife  to  speak.  He 
placed  implicit  credence  on  all  that  Gaspardo  said,  and 
then  was  not  at  all  averse  to  take  advantage  of  what  is 
called  “  the  main  chance,”  whenever  he  could  honestly  do 
so. 

“Certingly,  sir;  you  may  depend  on  me  an’ my  wife 
doin’  all  we  can  to  help  you.  It’s  a  hard  case,  an’  a  hard 
thing  to  do  ;  but  seem’  she’s  so  sot  agin  you,  an'  so  detar- 
mined  to  git  away,  it’s  the  best  an’  easiest  way  to  fix  it. 
The  poor  cre’tur  ain’t  fit  to  travel  alone,  as  a  body  can  see 
with  half  an  eye.” 

“Then  I  may  count  on  the  help  of  both  of  you?”  said 
Gaspardo,  looking  a  little  anxiously  at  Mrs.  Burchard, 
who  had  not  spoken. 

“Sartin,  sartin,”  interposed  Burchard,  nudging  his  wife. 
“  Why  don’t  you  answer  the  gentleman,  mother?” 

“  ’Cause  you  haven’t  given  me  no  chance,”  retorted  the 
woman,  sharply,  who  evidently  viewed  with  considerable 
dislike  the  part  she  was  expected  to  act. 

“  I’d  rather  have  nothin’  to  do  with  it,”  she  added,  turn¬ 
ing  toward  Gaspardo.  “Meanin’no  offense,  sir,  it  seems 
so  cruel  and  treacherous.  But  if  she’s  so  crazy  as  you  say 
she  is,  it  may  be  a  kindness  to  her  in  the  end;  I  d’e  say 
’tis.” 

With  this  reluctant  consent  Gaspardo  was  obliged  to  con¬ 
tent  himself. 

“A  close  carriage  will  be  here  at  half-past  four  in  the 
afternoon,”  he  said,  with  the  air  of  considering  everything 
satisfactorily  settled.  “Be  careful  to  keep  my  sister’s 
mind  perfectly  at  rest.  If  she  entertains  the  slightest  sus¬ 
picion  that  she  is  not  going  to  the  landing  to  take  the  boat, 
but  in  another  direction,  she  will  be  so  wild  and  furious 
that  we  can  do  nothing  with  her.” 

Mrs.  Burchard  returned  to  the  house,  but  her  husband 
remained  by  the  gate,  watching  Gaspardo,  who  was  search¬ 
ing  his  pocket-book,  and  who,  being  a  shrewd  judge  of 
character,  was  not  slow  in  reading  that  of  the  man  who 
was  regarding  him  with  such  an  eager,  expectant  look. 

Selecting  one  of  the  glittering  coins,  he  slipped  it  into 
Burchard’s  hand,  saying : 

“You  have  already  been  to  considerable  trouble  in  the 
matter.  As  soon  as  it  is  concluded,  and  my  sister  is  under 
my  own  charge  again,  as  it  is  for  her  best  good  she  should 
be,  you  shall  have  two  more.” 

Burchard  waited  until  he  heard  the  clatter  of  the  horse’s 
feet,  as  Gaspardo  rode  away.  Then  stealing  a  pleased, 


/ 

80  A  WIFE'S  CHIME. 

admiring  look  at  the  gold  eagle  in  his  hand,  he  thrust  it 
into  his  pocket,  and  went  up  to  the  house. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  kitchen  but  his  wife. 

“  A  very  nice,  pleasant  spoken  gentleman,”  he  said,  cast¬ 
ing  a  furtive  glance  at  his  wife’s  face. 

“  Mebby  he  is,”  she  responded,  applying  herself  with  in¬ 
creased  energy  to  the  clothes  she  was  folding,  as  though 
desirous  of  working  off  her  disturbed  feelings;  “I  don’t 
know  anything  to  the  contrary.  But  there's  something 
’bout  him  that  I  don’t  like,  fur  all  that.” 

“  Why,  mother,  how  can  you  be  so  uncharitable?”  said 
her  husband,  in  a  tone  of  virtuous  indignation.  “  An’  you 
a  church-member,  too!  ’Taint  right;  an’  I’m  surprised 
at  ye.” 

“  P’r’aps  it  ain’t;  but  that’s  jist  the  way  I  feel  ’bout  it.” 

“  Anybody  that  had  seen  ’em  would  know  they  was  re¬ 
lated,  an’  why  shouldn’t  the  rest  that  he  told  us  be  true?” 
continued  Burchard,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  trying  to  con¬ 
vince  himself,  as  well  as  his  audience.  “  You  can’t  deny 
but  what  they  look  ’nough  alike  to  be  brother  an’  sister.” 

“  They  look  alike,  and  then  again  they  don’t.  There's 
somethin’  deep  an’  dark  ’bout  his  face  that  you  don’t  see  in 
her’n.” 

“Well,  wife,  however  that  may  be,  our  duty  is  plain. 
It’s  an  onpleasant  thing  to  do,  I  aon’t  deny  that,  but  we 
mustn’t  shirk  it  on  that  account.  We  orter  help  this  gen¬ 
tleman  in  gettin’  his  sister  back  to  her  home.  She’d  be 
obleeged  to  us  for’t,  if  she  knew  what  was  for  her  best 
good.  We  hain’t  had  no  ser’us  difference  sence  we  was 
married,  an’  I  hope  ye  ain’t  goin’  agin  me  now.  ” 

“No,  father,  I  ain’t.  Not  but  what  I’d  stand  out  till 
doomsday,  if  I  thought  I  was  in  the  right  on’t,  but  I  ain’t 
sure.  It  may  be  jest  as  you  say,  I  d’e  say  ’tis,  but  it  goes 
’gainst  my  heart  to  deceive  the  poor  lady  this  way.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SNARED  AND  TAKEN. 

Geraldine,  who  was  in  entire  ignorance  of  the  storm 
that  was  gathering  over  her  head,  the  new  perils  that 
menaced  her,  began  to  be  restless  and  uneasy  at  Mrs.  Bar- 
chard’s  prolonged  absence,  whom  she  had  sent  to  her  hus¬ 
band  to  inquire  about  the  conveyance  she  was  so  anxious 
to  secure. 

The  thought  that  her  brother  was  in  the  neighborhood, 
searching  for  her,  struck  terror  to  her  soul,  making  her 
almost  wild  with  anxiety  to  get  away  from  it. 

Unable  to  endure  the  weight  of  her  fears  any  longer, 
Geraldine  found  her  way  out  into  the  kitchen,  where  her 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


81 


unexpected  appearance,  combined  with  her  pale  face  and 
gleaming  eyes,  were  quite  startling  to  its  two  inmates,  and 
Which,  certainljj  did  much  to  corroborate  what  Gaopardo 
had  told  them. 

Without  heeding  the  effect  she  had  produced,  or  think¬ 
ing  of  anything  but  the  object  she  had  in  view,  Geraldine 
said,  hurriedly: 

“I  am  quite  well  now,  and  cannot  stay  here  any  longer. 
It  is  very  necessary  that  I  should  take  the  next  boat  down, 
but  am  unable  to  walk  to  the  landing,  which  I  understand 
is  three  or  four  miles  distant.  I  said  that  I  felt  unable  to 
walk  so  far,  but  I  can  and  must,  if  there  is  no  conveyance 
to  be  had.” 

Mrs.  Burchard  looked  at  her  husband,  and  then  down  at 
the  towel  in  her  hands. 

Clearing  his  throat,  and  speaking  with  a  visible  effort, 
the  man  said : 

“  Of  course,  you  can’t  walk;  that’s  out  of  the  question. 
Wife  told  me  that  you  wanted  to  take  the  next  boat,  an’ 
I’ve  jest  heard  of  a  man  who’s  goin’  that  way  with  a  car¬ 
riage,  and  who  kin  take  you  along  jest  as  well  as  not.” 

Geraldine’s  face  brightened. 

“  Thank  you,  my  good,  kind  friends — for  such  you  have 
been  to  me.  I  have,  unfortunately,  lost  my  purse,  and  so 
have  but  little  money  about  me,  but  my  watch  and  chain, 
rings  and  other  ornaments  are  worth  several  hundred  dol¬ 
lars,  and  as  soon  as  I  can  dispose  of  them,  I  will  see  that 
you  are  paid  for  all  your  trouble.” 

This  grateful  look  and  tone  did  not  serve  to  put  Mr. 
Burchard  any  more  at  ease. 

“  I  don’t  want  no  pay,”  he  said,  almost  gruffly.  “  What 
I  do  is  from  a  sense  of  duty.  My  conscience  won’t  let  me 
see  you  do  what  you  ain’t  no  ways  fit  fur  doin’;  an’  some 
day  you’ll  thank  me  fur’t.” 

“  I  thank  you  now,”  smiled  Geraldine,  who  was  too 
much  pleased  at  the  prospect  before  her  to  be  very  critical 
of  her  host’s  obscure  and  rather  peculiar  phraseology. 
“  At  what  time  will  the  carriage  be  here?” 

“  At  half-past  four.” 

“  And  that  will  give  us  time  to  reach  the  dock?” 

“  Plenty.” 

Anxious  to  avoid  any  further  questions,  here  Burchard 
left  the  room,  and  in  compliance  with  his  wife’s  sugges¬ 
tions,  Geraldine  made  an  effort  to  compose  herself  to  rest, 
if  not  to  sleep,  during  the  intervening  time,  so  as  to  gain 
strength  for  her  journey. 

Geraldine’s  strange  words  and  manner,  the  excitement 
and  restlessness  visible  in  all  her  looks  and  ways,  so  fully 
-corroborated  all  that  Gaspardo  had  told  her  that  it  was  im- 


82 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


possible  for  Mrs.  Burchard  longer  to  doubt  that  her  mind 
was  seriously  affected,  but  it  only  increased  her  tenderness 
and  pity  for  her  unfortunate  guest. 

“Poor  thing!”  she  thought,  as  stealing  softly  into  the 
room  she  looked  upon  Geraldine,  who  was  sleeping,  with 
little  Isabel  in  her  arms,  “she  looks  as  sweet  an’  innocent 
as  a  baby.  How  sure  she  is  that  she’s  goin’  to  be  taken  to 
the  boat,  an’  how  disappointed  she’ll  be  when  she  finds  out 
her  mistake.  It  may  be  all  right,  I  d’e  say  ’tis,  but  I  wish, 
fur  massy's  sake,  that  I  hadn’t  no  hand  in’t !” 

Promptly,  at  the  appointed  time,  the  carriage  made  its 
appearance  at  the  door. 

There  were  two  men  on  the  box,  one  of  whom  was  Gas- 
pardo,  though  he  was  so  completely  disguised  that  Bur¬ 
chard,  who  came  down  to  the  gate,  did  not  recognize  him 
until  he  spoke. 

“Is  everything  all  right?”  said  the  former,  in  a  low  tone. 

“Everythin’  is  all  right,”  was  the  prompt  response. 
“  Wife’s  helpin’  her  on  with  her  things;  she’ll  be  out  in  a 
minute.” 

“  As  she  may  recognize  my  voice,  I  shall  let  you  do  all 
the  talking.  Get  her  into  the  carriage  as  quickly  as  possi¬ 
ble.  so  that  there  will  be  no  time  for  many  words.” 

Slipping  the  two  additional  gold  pieces  into  Burchard’s 
hand,  Gaspardo  resumed  his  seat  upon  the  box,  where 
Rattle  was  sitting,  muffled  up  to  the  eyes,  and  with  a  close 
cap  drawn  over  his  forehead. 

Geraldine  was  too  eager  to  be  on  her  way  again  to  linger 
many  minutes ;  in  a  very  short  space  of  time  she  made  her 
appearance,  Mrs.  Burchard  accompanying  her,  with  little 
Isabel  in  her  arms. 

The  kind-hearted  woman’s  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Geraldine  turned  toward  her  as  they  reached  the  gate. 

“You  have  been  very  good  to  me,”  she  said,  sweetly, 
holding  out  her  hand,  “  and  I  should  be  glad  to  give  you 
something  more  than  thanks,  Pray  accept  this  ring  as  a 
token  of  my  gratitude.” 

This  was  more  than  poor  Mrs.  Burchard  could  bear. 

“No!  no!  I  couldn’t  think  on’t,”  she  sobbed,  thrusting 
away  her  hand.  “  God  forgive  me- -God  bless  you,  I 
mean,  I  liain't  done  nothin’  but  what  I  felt  obleeged  to,  an’ 
I  hope  you’ll  think  the  best  on  me  that  you  can.” 

“Wife,”  whispered  Burchard,  angrily,  twitching  her 
sleeve 

Roused  and  half  frightened  at  this  appeal,  Mrs.  Burchard 
wiped  her  eyes,  saying  to  Geraldine: 

“  Now  get  into  the  carriage,  dearie,  an’  I’ll  hand  you  the 

baby.” 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


bu 

Here  Geraldine,  observing  the  position  of  the  carriage 
for  the  first  time,  said : 

“  The  horses  are  headed  in  the  wrong  direction.  From 
what  the  boy  told  me,  the  village  must  be  down  that  way. 
You  had  better  turn  the  carriage  before  I  get  in.” 

For  a  moment  Burchard  was  at  a  loss;  but  it  was  only  for 
a  moment. 

“  It’s  all  right,  ma’am.  You  see,  the  driver’s  got  to  go 
up  a  piece.  Then  he’s  going  down  by  another  road  that  is 
a  shorter  way.” 

Then,  addressing  the  men  on  the  box: 

“You  must  be  lively,  now  This  lady  doesn't  want  to 
miss  the  boat,  an’  there’s  nO  time  to  lose.’ 

The  bare  suggestion  of  losing  the  boat  was  all  that  Geral¬ 
dine  needed.  Stepping  into  the  carriage,  she  took  little 
Isabel  from  Mrs.  Burchard’s  arms,  the  carriage  door  was 
slammed  to,  and  the  carriage  moved  away  at  a  r  pid  pace. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burchard  remained  at  the  gate  watching 
it  until  it  disappeared  from  view. 

Mr.  Burchard  s  countenance  wore  a  relieved  and  self 
satisfied  expression,  and  which  was  not  unnoticed  by  his 
wife,  whose  feelings  were  very  different. 

“I  hope  you  won’t  never  be  sorry,  Josiah  Burchard.  fur 
this  day’s  work,”  she  said,  with  considerable  emphasis; 
“  but  I  ain’t  so  sure  on’t  as  I’d  like  to  be.” 

“How  strange  you  talk,  wife.  I’ve  took  measures  to 
hev  a  poor,  crazy  woman  carried  back  to  her  home  an’ 
friends.  I  hain’t  no  call  to  be  sorry  for’t,  an’  I  don’t  think 
I  ever  shall.  ” 

Half  an  hour  later  Bob  made  his  appearance  at  the  door, 
his  cheeks  flushed  and  his  eyes  shining  with  haste  and  ex¬ 
citement. 

“  I've  called  to  tell  the  lady  that  I’ve  engaged  a  team  to 
take  her  to  the  dock.  It’ll  be  here  in  ’bout  twenty  minutes. 
Where  is  she?” 

Mr.  Burchard  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  with  which 
he  was  solacing  himself. 

“  She  ain’t  here;  she’s  gone.” 

“Gone?”  echoed  the  boy  in  a  disappointed  tone.  “  What 
made  her  go  so  airly?  The  boat  don’t  leave  ’fore  eight 
o'clock.” 

Then,  remembering  the  portemonnaie  he  had  found,  he 
added : 

“  I’mgoin’  right  down  to  the  dock.  I’ve  got  to  see  her 
’fore  she  goes;  I’ve  got  somethin’  to — to  say  to  her.” 

Burchard  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  agitation 
manifested  by  Bob,  as  well  as  the  interest  he  took  in  his 
late  guest. 

“  Why,  what  have  you  got  to  say  to  her?” 


84 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“  Never  you  mind  what,  old  man/’  retorted  Bob,  with  a 
mysterious  air.  “  It’s  somethin’  important.” 

Now  Burchard  had  his  own  reasons  for  preventing  any 
such  movement  as  this. 

“  You  take  my  advice,  lad,  an’  don’t  meddle  with  what 
don’t  consarn  ye.  You’d  much  better  take  a  good  hot  sup¬ 
per  with  us,  than  streakin’  it  off  down  there  on  a  fool’s 
arrant.  ” 

“  It  happens  to  be  somethin’  that  does  consarn  me,”  re¬ 
sponded  Bob,  turning  toward  the  door.  “So  I’ll  hev  to  de¬ 
cline  both  advice  an’  supper,  though  I’m  obleeged  to  ye  all 
the  same.” 

Mrs.  Burchard,  who  was  present,  had  been  silent  through 
all  this. 

Unable  longer  to  restrain  her  indignation,  she  now 
said : 

“  I  declare  if  it  ain’t  a  shame  for  you  to  let  the  boy  think 
she’s  gone  down  there.” 

Then,  springing  through  the  doorway,  out  upon  the 
porch,  she  cried : 

“Bob!  Bob!” 

But  Bob  had  got  too  far  along  on  his  way  to  hear  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WHAT  BOB  FINDS  IN  THE  WOODS. 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Bob  failed 
to  find  Geraldine  at  the  dock,  to  his  unconcealed  surprise 
and  disappointment. 

He  lingered  around,  however,  until  the  boat  left,  enter¬ 
ing  into  conversation  with  a  number,  whose  business  called 
them  thither,  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  if  any  one 
answering  to  Geraldine’s  description  had  been  seen,  but 
without  any  satisfactory  result. 

“  There  were  some  other  folks  here  this  morning  inquir: 
ing  about  a  lady  they  expected  to  find  here,”  said  one  of 
these.  “Just  such  a  looking  lady,  too,  I  should  say,  by 
what  they  said  of  her.” 

Though  only  fourteen,  and  with  limited  opportunities  for 
education.  Bob  had  considerable  natural  shrewdness  and 
common  sense,  and  this  set  him  to  thinking. 

“  Was  it  two  men  on  horseback,  one  on  ’em  short  an’  the 
other  tall,  with  black  eyes  an’  hair,  an’  sort  o’  fierce- 
like?” 

“Yes.  And  I  heard  the  tall  one  say  to  the  other,  ‘  that 
they  must  have  missed  her  on  the  road,  and  that  he  would 
leave  him  here  and  go  back.’  Then  he  rode  away,” 

“An'  you  didn't  see  nothin'  more  of  ’em?” 

“No,” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


85 


“I  did,”  said  another;  “  I  see  him  come  back  an’  talk  a 
spell  to  the  other  one.  Then  they  both  went  to  Manson’s 
stable  an’  hired  a  carriage  an’  drove  off.” 

“  Which  way?” 

“  I  didn’t  notice?” 

Bob  was  both  puzzled  and  indignant.  That  the  lady  he 
had  befriended  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  these  men 
seemed  more  than  probable,  but  had  it  been  through  the 
connivance  of  Burchard?  It  certainly  looked  like  it. 

He  was  not  long  in  retracing  his  way  back  to  the  house, 
bursting  in  upon  Burchard  and  his  wife  like  a  small  hurri¬ 
cane. 

“  A  pretty  trick  you’ve  played  me!  The  lady  ain’t  there, 
an’  she  hain’t  been  there  nuther !” 

“  I  didn’t  s’pect  she  was,”  said  the  old  farmer,  dryly; 
“  she  went  another  way.” 

“  An’  you  knowed  it  alt  the  time,  an’  let  me  go  clear 
down  there,  jist  for  nothin’?” 

“  I’d  hev  told  ye,  if  ye  hadn’t  been  in  such  a  thunderin’ 
hurry.  Not  that  I  consider  it  any  of  your  business.” 

“  I  sent  that  lady  to  ye,  old  man,”  responded  Bob,  in  a 
towering  rage,  “an’  you  may  jest  bet  that  I  shall  make  it 
my  business  to  find  out  what  you’ve  done  with  her.” 

“You  see,  Bob,”  interposed  Mrs.  Burchard,  with  a  mild, 
conciliatory  air.  “the  poor  thing  is  crazy,  an’  so  her 
brother  come  an’  took  her  away.” 

“  I  don’t  believe  it.  I  don’t  believe  she  is  any  more  crazy 
than  I  am. 

“  What  did  she  do,  that  made  you  think  she  was?”  added 
Bob,  turning  to  Mrs.  Burchard,  in  whom  it  was  easy  to  see 
lie  had  the  most  confidence. 

“  Well,  she  seemed  wild  and  flighty-like.” 

“  I  guess  you’d  be  wild  and  flighty  too,  if  you’d  been 
wanderin’  ’bout  all  night  with  nothin’  to  eat,  and  knowed 
that  somebody  was  huntin’  you  down  as  if  you  was  a 
wild  beast.” 

“  So  I  told  her  brother.  I  said  it  seemed  more  as  if  it 
was  trouble,  or  gettin’  so  worn  out  like,  that  made  her  act 
so  strange,  than  anythin’  ser’us.” 

“  P’r’aps  he  wasn’t  her  brother  at  all.  I  met  him  up  at 
the  corner  jest  arter  I  left  her  here  this  mornin’,  and  if 
ever  a  man  had  a  bad,  cruel  face,  he  had.  Did  she  go  with 
him  contented?” 

“  The  poor  dear  never  knowed  she  was  goin’ with  him  at 
all;  she  thought  she  was  goin’  to  the  dock.  Her  brother 
didn’t  want  us  to  let  on  that  he  had  anythin’  to  do  with  it. 
I  told  Josiah  that  that  was  what  made  me  feel  the  wust. 
It  seemed  so  deceitful  an’ treacherous.  ” 

“  An’  so  it  was.  An’  I  never  thought  you  was  the  woman 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


to  do  it,  either.  A  poor,  hunted-down  defenseless  things 
an’  with  a  baby,  too.” 

The  doubts  that  Mrs.  Burchard  had  all  along  entertained 
sent  these  words  home  to  her  heart. 

‘‘It  was  somethin’  that  I  didn’t  want  anythin’  to  do 
with,  an’  so  I  told  ’em.  I  declare  for’t  I  never  felt  wuss  in 
my  life  than  when  I  see  her  gittin’  into  the  carriage,  spe¬ 
cially  when  she  thanked  me  so  pretty  for  all  my  kindness; 
but  her  brother  talked  so  fair,  an’  Josiah  thought  ’twas  all 
right - ” 

“An’  so  I  think  now,”  interrupted  Burchard,  wrathfully. 
“  An’  I  tell  ye  what  ’tis,  young  man,  I  don’t  want  ye  to 
come  y  ere  an’  talk  to  me  an’  my  wife  this  way.  We  hain’t 
done  nothin’  we’re  ashamed  on;  crazy  folks  has  to  be  man¬ 
aged.  There  was  my  brother’s  wife’s  cousin,  Jane  Petti¬ 
grew,  nobody  could  have  got  her  to  the  ’silum  if  they 
hadn’t  made  her  believe  she  was  goin’  to  visit  her  sister. 
Things  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  a  lad  like  you  lays 
down  the  law  to  a  man  of  my  years  1” 

Here  the  speaker  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  his  red  ban¬ 
dana  handkerchief,  taking  with  it  one  of  the  gold  coins 
that  Gaspardo  had  given  him,  and  which  rolled  to  Bob’s 
feet. 

Picking  it  up,  Bob  laid  it  on  the  table. 

“How  many  of  these  did  that  black-eyed  feller  give  ye 
fur  doin’  his  dirty  work  fur  him?” 

Burchard’s  face  was  almost  as  red  as  the  handkerchief 
with  which  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

He  cast  a  shame-faced  look  at  his  wife,  whose  counte¬ 
nance  showed  that  this  was  a  new  and  unwelcome  revela¬ 
tion. 

“I  didn’t  ask  no  pay,”  he  said,  surlily;  “and  I’d  done 
jest  the  same  if  I  hadn’t  got  none.  He  put  this  in  my  hand 
jest  as  he  was  goin’  off,  an’  it’s  nobody’s  business.  An’ 
now,  you  young  sass-box,  if  you  don’t  make  yourself 
scarce - ” 

Believing  discretion  to  be  the  better  part  of  valor.  Bob 
put  the  door  between  himself  and  the  speaker’s  wrathful 
face. 

“  If  I  was  only  bigger,  an’  he  wasn’t  an  old  man,  I’d  soon 
let  him  know  what  I  thought  of  sech  doin’s,  an’  it  wouldn’t 
be  by  words,  nuther!”  he  thought,  as  he  pursued  his  way 
home.  “  I  never  will  believe  she  was  crazy;  an’  I  declare 
if  it  ain’t  a  burnin’  shame !” 

The  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  making  everything 
as  clear  as  day. 

“  Here  is  where  I  fust  saw  her.”  he  thought,  as  he  came 
to  the  fence  by  which  Geraldine  stood  when  she  called  to 
him.  “Didn’t  she  look  pretty,  though!  Sech  beautiful 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  87 

black  eyes,  an’  sech  a  sweet  smile  an’  voice!  I  never  see 
anybody  like  her,  an’  never  expect  to  ag’in.” 

Here  Bob  gave  a  half -sigh. 

He  was  a  warm-hearted,  imaginative  boy,  with  a  good 
deal  of  unawakened  poetry  in  his  nature ;  still  too  young 
to  have  any  idea  of  love  as  a  oassion,  he  was  of  that  age 
and  temperament  when  a  beautiful  woman  becomes  the 
object  of  wonder  and  admiration. 

Geraldine’s  beauty  and  gentle,  winning  word  4  and 
ways,  combined  with  her  appeal  to  him  for  aid  and  protec¬ 
tion,  had  made  her  the  object  of  chivalrous  affection  and 
devotion,  rarely  excelled  by  those  of  riper  years  and  ex¬ 
perience. 

The  sadness  and  uncertainty  of  Geraldine’s  fate  filled 
him  with  pity  and  terror. 

“  Poor  lady,”  he  thought.  “  I  wonder  where  she  is  now. 
There  can’t  nothin’  make  me  believe  that  she’s  crazy. 
That  man  had  a  real  wicked  look,  an’  I  don’t  believe  he 
means  her  any  good.  An’  to  think  of  his  gettin’  hold  on 
her,  arter  all  the  pains  I  took  to  send  him  another  way.” 

Here  Bob  was  startled  by  a  plaintive  cry. 

Pausing,  he  listened,  but  hearing  nothing  further,  and 
supposing  it  to  be  the  cry  of  a  bird  or  animal,  he  walked 
on. 

Presently  he  heard  the  same  sound  again,  this  time 
louder  and  more  prolonged. 

It  seemed  to  come  from  a  dense  piece  of  woods  on  the 
right,  and  was  evidently  the  cry  of  a  child  in  great  want 
or  distress. 

Getting  over  the  fence,  he  moved  quickly  in  the  direc¬ 
tion  whence  the  cries  proceeded. 

He  had  gone  only  a  few  steps,  when  he  saw  a  bundle  of 
something  white  in  the  path  beyond. 

The  sounds  that  proceeded  from  it,  showed  that  it  was  an 
animated  bundle,  and  on  picking  it  up  and  unrolling  the 
blanket  and  cloak  that  enveloped  it,  he  found  that  it  con¬ 
tained  a  child  of  less  than  a  year  old. 

On  further  examination,  he  saw  that  it  was  the  babe  that 
he  had  held  in  his  arms  in  the  morning,  and  whose  resem¬ 
blance  to  her  beautiful  mother  he  remembered  so  well. 

As  though  she  knew  that  she  had  found  a  friend,  the 
little  creature’s  cries  ceased  as  soon  as  Bob  lifted  her  in  his 
arms,  nestling  there  as  though  glad  to  find  so  pleasant  a 
shelter. 

Just  then  he  heard  the  hurried  clatter  of  horses’  feet 
along  the  highway  he  had  just  quitted. 

Suddenly  stopping,  it  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  ap¬ 
proaching  footsteps. 

More  from  instinct  than  anything  else,  Bob  crouched 


88 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


down  in  a  little  thicket  of  tall  bushes,  that  completely 
screened  him  from  view. 

“  Here  is  where  I  threw  the  little  brat  out  of  the  carriage,” 
said  a  voice  that  Bob  well  remembered,  though  he  had 
heard  it  but  once.  “It’s  killed,  no  doubt.  It  never  should 
have  had  any  being — that  it  had  is  an  eternal  disgrace  to 
our  name.  So  I’m  glad  of  that;  only  if  it  should  be  found, 
it  might  arouse  unpleasant  suspicions.  Do  you  see  any 
signs  of  it,  Pietro?  Look  in  that  direction.” 

A  cold  perspiration  started  out  on  Bob’s  face ;  if  discov¬ 
ered,  he  knew  his  life  would  be  the  forfeit,  as  well  as  the 
innocent  child’s,  toward  whom  his  heart  was  drawn  so 
strongly. 

Supposing  it  should  cry?  His  heart  stood  still  at  the 
bare  thought. 

But  as  though  the  little  creature  knew  that  its  preserva¬ 
tion  depended  upon  it,  it  lay  with  its  head  on  Bob’s  shoulder 
without  making  a  sound  or  motion. 

One  of  the  men  had  a  dark  lantern,  and  in  the  search 
they  were  making  its  rays  were  thrown  so  directly  on  the 
place  where  Bob  was  secreted,  that  for  a  moment  he  was 
almost  sure  that  he  was  seen. 

Then,  to  his  great  relief,  the  man  that  held  it  passed  on ; 
and,  apparently  satisfied  that  he  had  made  a  thorough 
search  m  that  direction,  did  not  come  that  way  again. 

“  Are  you  sure  this  was  the  place?”  he  hears  one  of  them 
say. 

“Yes;  I  know  I  stopped  the  carriage  just  by  that  tree 
yonder.  I  flung  the  child  right  over  the  fence.  Some¬ 
body  must  have  found  it ;  it  was  too  young  to  walk 
away.” 

“  It  wouldn’t  have  been  very  likely  to  have  done  so,  after 
the  fling  you  gave  it,  if  it  hadn’t  been,”  said  the  other. 
“You  had  better  have  kept  your  temper.” 

“I  suppose  I  had,”  was  the  gloomy  response.  “But 
what  is  a  man  to  do  with  a  woman  screaming  in  the  way 
Geraldine  did,  and  with  the  expectation  of  some  one 
coming  along  and  hearing  her?  I  could  have  strangled 
her !” 

“  I  dare  say.  And  you  had  better  have  done  it,  too, 
than  fling  the  child  where  it  would  be  picked  up,  and  so, 
perhaps,  bring  everything  out.  ” 

“Why,  do  you  think  the  child  has  anything  on  it  that 
could  identify  it?” 

“  I  can’t  say  as  to  that.  It  is  rather  too  young  to  wear 
ornaments.  But  I  think,  under  the  circumstances,  that  it 
was  a  very  risky  thing  to  do,  and  may  make  us  trouble. 
There  is  no  knowing  what  it  may  lead  to,  We  had  better 


A  WIFE ’S  CRIME.  89 

do  what  we  have  to  do  quickly,  and  get  out  of  this  part  of 
the  country  as  soon  as  we  can.” 

Scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  Bob  listened  to  the  retreating 
footsteps,  and  then  to  the  clatter  of  the  horses’  feet  until 
they  died  in  the  distance. 

Then,  pale  and  trembling,  he  arose  from  his  constrained 
position,  staggering,  rather  than  walking,  to  a  natural  seat 
formed  by  some  stones  near  by. 

Cool  as  the  night  was,  the  terror  he  had  been  in  had 
brought  the  moisture  out  in  large  drops  upon  his  fore¬ 
head. 

His  first  thought  was  of  the  child. 

Alarmed  at  its  limpness  and  quietude,  Bob  looked  down 
upon  it. 

Its  eyes  were  shut,  but  it  did  not  look  as  if  it  was  sleep¬ 
ing,  and  he  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  a 
livid  mark  across  the  forehead. 

Frightened  at  its  death-like  appearance,  he  went  to  a 
brook  near  by,  laving  its  head  and  face  in  the  cool,  clear 
water. 

To  his  great  relief  and  delight,  Isabel  opened  her  eyes, 
smiling  up  into  his  face. 

Then  she  moaned,  as  if  in  pain,  crying: 

‘  ‘  Mamma !  mamma !” 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

“  Poor,  poor  baby !  I  wish  your  mamma  was  here.  Poor 
lady!  she’s  wuss  off  than  you  be,  I’m  afraid.” 

The  events  of  the  last  few  hours,  especially  the  responsi¬ 
bilities  thrust  so  suddenly  upon  him,  had  done  the  work 
of  years  in  arousing  the  capabilities  of  his  nature. 

“  The  little  thing  hain’t  nobody  but  me,”  he  thought,  as 
he  looked  down  on  it,  his  heart  swelling  with  a  sense  of 
pride  and  ownership  as  he  saw  how  sweet  and  helpless  she 
was;  “an’  it  ain’t  goin’  to  want  fur  nothin’  if  I  can  help 
it.  She’s  left  to  me  to  take  care  of,  an’  I’m  goin’  to  do  it !” 

But  in  spite  of  the  confident  tone  of  these  reflections, 
there  was  a  puzzled  feeling  at  Bob’s  heart  as  he  queried 
what  he  was  to  do  with  this  helpless  charge. 

There  were  no  bones  broken,  the  blanket  and  cloak  in 
which  she  was  wrapped  having  prevented  that;  but  the 
bruise  on  the  forehead  ought  to  be  attended  to,  and  then 
she  was  evidently  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger. 

At  first,  he  thought  he  would  take  it  back  to  Mr.  Bur- 
chard’s,  but,  after  some  deliberation,  he  rejected  it. 

He  knew  how  kind-hearted  his  wife  was,  but  he  had  lost 
all  confidence  in  her  husband,  judging  him  more  hardly 
than  he  deserved  to  be ;  for  though  a  man  capable  of  being 
blinded  by  his  own  interest,  like  many  another,  he  would 
fxot  do  a  cruel  or  unjust  thing,  if  he  knew  it  to  be  such, 


A  WIFE ’S  CRIME. 


9i 

“It  will  be  just  like  him  to  let  those  men  know  where 
she  is.  He’ll  take  their  story  instead  of  mine,  an’  the  up¬ 
shot  of  it  will  be  that  she’ll  be  given  up  to  ’em.  I  know  what 
I’ll  do,  I’ll  carry  it  to  Aunt  Jane.  There  ain’t  a  kinder 
heart  anywhere,  an’  though  uncle  don’t  like  babies,  he’ll 
like  this  one  or  I’ll  lose  my  guess.  They’ll  keep  it  for  a 
spell,  I  know.  When  they  hear  its  strange,  sad  story, 
they’ll  love  an’  pity  it,  jist  as  I  do,  poor  baby !” 

And  holding  his  precious  charge  carefully  in  his  arms, 
Bob  struck  into  a  narrow  path  that  led  to  a  road  that 
wound  along  the  river. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
baby’s  new  home  and  friends. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  bustling  about  in  her  pleasant  kitchen 
getting  supper,  or  rather  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  it. 

It  was  all  lying  upon  the  round  table,  covered  with 
snowy  linen,  that  the  old-fashioned  grandmother,  who  sat 
knitting  in  the  corner,  had  spun  and  woven  with  her  own 
hands. 

And  a  plentiful  and  tempting  repast  it  was. 

A  blue-edged  platter  was  in  the  center,  on  which  were 
the  vegetables  and  meat  left  over  from  dinner.  At  one  end 
of  the  table  was  a  loaf  of  brown  bread,  at  the  other  a  loaf 
of  white,  supplemented  by  a  “  pat  ”  of  golden  butter. 

Then  there  were  clear  white  honey,  in  the  comb,  a  plate 
of  doughnuts  and  cheese,  and  a  pitcher  of  cider  and  of 
milk. 

All  making  up  an  array  of  “creature  comforts,”  very 
pleasant  to  look  at,  and  still  more  agreeable  to  partake  of. 

Twice  Mrs.  Brown  went  to  the  door,  looking  down  toward 
the  road. 

“  I  wonder  what  keeps  Robert  so  late?”  she  said,  as  she 
returned  from  her  second  look,  addressing  her  husband, 
who  was  sitting  by  the  cheerful  blaze.  “  He  ought  to  have 
been  here  more’n  an  hour  ago.” 

“  He’s  stopped  on  the  road  some’eres,  I  s’pose,”  was  the 
response.  “Boys  will  be  boys.  I  only  wish  he  was  more 
like  other  boys  than  he  is.” 

“  That  he  wan’t  so  fond  of  his  book,  I  s’pose  you  mean?” 
said  the  wife,  a  little  anxiety  visible  beneath  the  smile 
that  was  seldom  absent  from  the  placid,  motherly  face. 

“Yes,  I  do,”  was  the  rather  irritable  response.  “  What 
good  is  book-larnin’  goin’  to  do  the  boy?  He’s  got  all  that 
I  ever  had,  an’  that’s  enough.  It’ll  only  make  him  discon¬ 
tented  and  shiftless.” 

“I  do’  know  ’bout  that,  John.  Robert  ain’t  like  the  gen¬ 
eral  run  of  boys— never  seemed  to  care  to  j’ine  in  any  of 


A  WIFE  8  CRIME. 


91 

their  fun  an’  frolics.  An’  I  can’t  help  thinkin’,  if  he  had  a 
good  chance  fur  schoolin’,  that  he’d  turn  out  somethin’ 
more’n  common.” 

“  That's  because  you’re  so  wrapped  up  in  the  boy.  He 
won't  be  fit  fur  nothin’;  you  jest  sp’ile  him.” 

“  No,  you  can’t  say  that  he’s  sp’iled,  John,  even  if  I  am 
partial ;  a  sweeter-tempered,  more  industrious  boy  never 
breathed.  He  was  almost  beside  himself  with  joy  when  I 
told  him  that  you  said  he  could  go  to  school  this  winter, 
an’  I  do  hope  thaG  there  won’t  be  nothin’  happen  to  prevent 
it.” 

“  I  ain’t  goin’  back  from  my  word,”  said  Mr  Brown, 
more  in  response  to  his  wife’s  look  than  words.  “I  said 
the  lad  should  go  to  school  this  cornin’  winter  if  he  wanted 
to,  an’  so  he  shall.  But  I  think  it’s  jist  foolishness,  all  the 
same.” 

Mrs.  Brown’s  face  cleared  at  this  assurance. 

“  I  guess  we  won’t  wait  supper  any  longer?  you  must  be 
hungry  arter  cutting  wood  all  day.  Come,  grandma.  I 
can’t  help  thinkin’  it’s  queer  about  Kobert  though;  he’s 
always  been  as  reg’lar  as  a  clock.” 

The  “supper  things”  had  been  put  away,  except  what 
had  been  left  for  Bob,  who  still  tarried. 

Mrs.  Brown’s  surprise  at  this  was  fast  giving  place  to 
alarm,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in  Bob  walked,  laying 
a  little  animated  bundle  in  her  lap. 

“  I  found  it  in  the  woods!”  he  cried  excitedly.  “  It’s  my 
baby;  God  gave  it  to  me!” 

The  good  woman  gazed  in  speechless  amazement  upon 
the  child  that  was  lying  on  her  knees. 

It  was  no  time  for  questions,  however ;  ‘  ‘  lawful  sakes,  did 
you  ever!”  being  all  that  escaped  her  lips  as  she  proceeded 
to  attend  to  the  wants  of  the  forlorn  little  creature,  whose 
helplessness  and  beauty  appealed  so  strongly  to  her  heart. 

Bob  assisted  her  to  the  extent  of  his  ability,  bringing 
warm  water,  bandages  and  liniment,  and,  lastly,  some 
cunning  little  garments  that  had  been  lying  there  at  the 
bottom  of  Mrs.  Brown’s  chest  for  many  a  year. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Brown  sat  motionless  in  his  seat  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fire,  staring  at  the  two  and  the  object 
of  their  loving  ministrations. 

Having  eaten  to  repletion  of  the  nice  new  milk  and  white 
bread,  which  Bob  had  prepared  for  her  in  his  own  pewter 
porringer,  little  Isabel  lay  contentedly  in  Mrs,  Brown’s  lap, 
staring  up  at  the  faces  that  were  bending  over  her. 

Mr.  Brown  now  approached. 

As  though  she  saw  something  that  pleased  her  in  thac. 
rugged  but  not  unkindly  face,  the  little  creature  cooed, 
holding  out  her  dimpled  hands  toward  him. 


99 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


At  this,  the  half  frown  that  the  man’s  face  wore  changed 
to  a  look  of  pleased  interest. 

His  wife  was  quick  to  notice  and  take  advantage  of  this. 

“Ain’t  she  pretty,  John?” 

Though  John  made  no  verbal  response,  he  surrendered 
his  big  brown  forefinger  to  the  clasp  of  one  of  the  little 
fluttering  hands,  gazing  with  an  involuntary  admiration 
into  those  black,  velvety  eyes. 

“She’s  pretty  enough,  if  that’s  all,”  he  said,  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  later,  as  his  wife  repeated  'the  question,  speaking  a 
little  gruffly,  as  though  half  ashamed  of  his  weakness 

“  She  ain’t  half  so  pretty  as  her  mother,”  burst  out  Bob. 
“Oh!  auntie,  oh!  Uncle  John,  if  you  could  have  seen  her  I” 

Mr  Brown  turned  his  eyes  inquiringly  upon  the  speaker, 
and  his  voice  had  an  impatience  and  even  sternness  in  it, 
as  he  said : 

“  Where  is  the  child’s  mother?  And  where  did  you  come 
across  either?  Come,  lad,  I  want  an  explanation,” 

Bob  needed  no  urging  to  tell  his  wonderful  story ;  the 
strange  events,  in  which  he  had  so  strangely  participated, 
having  made  so  strong  an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he 
could  think  of  little  else. 

He  commenced,  when  Geraldine  called  to  him  over  the 
fence,  in  the  dawn  of  the  early  morning;  narrating  in  his 
own  way,  his  rude,  but  expressive  language  enhancing  its 
interest  to  his  simple-hearted  auditors,  his  futile  efforts  to 
aid  and  defend  her;  his  stormy  interview  with  Burchard; 
his  finding  of  her  babe  in  the  woods,  down  to  the  time 
when  those  evil  men  came  back  to  complete  their  cruel 
work. 

“Blessme!”  ejaculated  Mrs.  Brown,  with  uplifted  hands, 
at  its  conclusion,  “did  ever  any  one  hear  the  like?  If  it 
don’t  sound  just  like  a  story  out  of  a  book.” 

“  That  proves  what  I  heard  Parson  Decker  say  t’other 
day,”  responded  Bob.  “  He  said  there  was  things  goin’  on 
all  around  us  that  folks  dursent  put  into  print,  fur  fear  no¬ 
body  wouldn’t  believe  ’em.” 

Mr.  Brown  had  listened  to  Bob’s  story  with  absorbing 
interest. 

“That  reminds  me  of  somethin’  I  heard  neighbor  Lar¬ 
kins  say,  though  I  didn’t  take  no  account  on’t  at  the  time. 
He  said,  as  he  was  walkin’  through  Allen’s  woods,  ’bout 
sundown,  he  saw  a  carriage  come  tearin’  along  the  road, 
an’  a  woman  in  it,  screamin’  like  mad.” 

“It  was  the  poor,  pretty  lady,”  said  Bob,  sorrowfully ; 
“those  wicked  and  cruel  men  were  carryin’  her  off.” 

“There’s  law  for  sech  people,”  responded  Mr.  Brown, 
with  a  grave  shake  of  the  head.  “It’s  somethin’  that 
ought  to  be  looked  arter.” 


A  T  VIFE'S  CRIME. 


28 

“Oh,  uncle!  if  you  make  any  stir ’bout  it  they’ll  come 
an’  take  away  my  baby.  It  won’t  do  a  mite  of  good.  You 
see,  they  know  just  how  to  talk  an’  make  everythin’ 
smooth.  An’  then  they’ve  got  lots  of  money,  an’  money 
can  do  most  anythin’.” 

“  Well,  I’ll  see  ’bout  it  in  the  mornin’.  It’s  time  you  was 
to  bed  now,  an’  we  all  was.” 


CHAPTER  XX. 

DISCOVERY  AND  CONFESSION. 

The  latter  part  of  Geraldine’s  journey  back  to  Hunter’s 
Lodge  was  performed  in  an  enforced  quietude,  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  excitement  that  had  followed  her  first  sus¬ 
picion  of  the  treachery  that  had  been  practiced  against 
her. 

For  a  few  minutes  consciousness  had  given  way  beneath 
the  horrors  of  her  position  and  the  violence  ,to  which  she 
was  subjected. 

When  it  returned  she  found  herself  gagged  and  her 
hands  pinioned  behind  her;  her  last  sensation  being  the 
clutch  of  the  fingers  of  one  of  her  captors  around  her 
throat,  in  his  endeavors  to  stifle  her  outcries. 

Her  first  thought  was  of  her  baby. 

She  remembered  her  brother  snatching  it  from  her  arms, 
in  his  first  struggle  with  her,  and  she  remembered  no  more. 

Unable  to  move,  or  make  the  slightest  sound,  she  cast 
her  eyes  around  the  carriage,  her  heart  full  of  deadly  ap¬ 
prehension  as  she  found  that  it  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Then,  as  she  felt  the  motion  of  the  revolving  wheels, 
knowing  only  too  well  whither  they  were  taking  her,  her 
thoughts  took  a  still  darker  direction. 

Had  her  husband’s  body  been  found?  was  the  involun¬ 
tary  query  that  arose,  her  heart  sinking  as  she  thought 
how  impossible  it  was  that  that  dark  secret  could  be  kept 
any  longer. 

A  feeling  akin  to  despair  seized  her,  as  she  saw  how  vain 
were  all  her  efforts  to  escape,  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  care¬ 
fully-laid  plans,  the  hardships  she  had  undergone,  she  had 
been  brought  back  to  face  the  unspeakable  horrors  and 
perils  that  this  discovery  would  inevitably  bring. 

Why  should  she  struggle  any  longer? 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  with  her  eyes  unbound,  but 
her  arms  still  pinioned,  Geraldine  was  lifted  out. 

Her  eyes  had  been  so  long  in  darkness,  that  at  first  all 
she  could  discern  was  the  outlines  of  a  dusky  figure  upon 
the  steps,  made  visible  by  the  flash  of  alighted  candle,  th  J 
was  held  high  above  the  head. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


$4 


Then  some  thin,  wiry  fingers  clutched  her  arm,  and  a 
voice  hissed  in  her  ear : 

“  Marse  Robert  is  come.  Do  you  want  to  see  him?” 

4 ‘No — oh,  no!”  moaned  the  conscience-stricken  wife, 
sinking  down  upon  her  knees. 

Lorenzo  Gaspardo  and  his  brother  Pietro  were  witnesses 
to  this  strange  spectacle. 

The  former  now  said: 

“  Is  Mr.  Bayard  here,  Prue?” 

There  was  a  strange  look  in  Prue’s  eyes  as  she  rolled 
them  from  one  to  the  other. 

“Yes,  sah.  Marse  Robert  here.  Do  you  want  to  see 
him?” 

“  Of  course.  Take  me  to  where  he  is  directly.” 

Some  idea  must  have  entered  the  speaker’s  mind  that 
the  person  he  expected  to  see  would  hardly  approve  of  the 
harsh  measures  he  had  taken  with  his  wife,  however  hard 
he  might  be  with  her  himself,  for  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  to 
his  brother: 

“  Unbind  her  arms.” 

“  She  got  to  come,  too,”  said  Prue,  who  still  maintained 
her  position  and  strange  demeanor. 

“No!  no!  I  cannot,  I  cannot?”  moaned  Geraldine,  still 
cowering  upon  the  ground. 

“And  I  say  yes,  yes,”  cried  Lorenzo,  angrily,  lifting  her 
on  to  her  feet.  “What  do  you  mean  by  such  conduct? 
Your  husband  was  once  fool  enough  to  love  you,  as  few 
women  are  loved,  and  if  you  don’t  make  your  peace  with 
him.  at  least  sufficienly  to  save  our  name,  from  disgrace, 
you’ll  soon  find  out  what  to  expect  from  me.  He’ll  show 
you  a  good  deal  more  mercy  than  I  shall.” 

It  was  part  of  the  wretched  wife’s  punishment  to  feel 
and  realize  this,  as  no  one  else  could. 

Silent  and  grim,  Prue  moved  on  ahead ;  the  light  from 
the  candle  flashing  about  her  tall,  gaunt  form,  and  giving 
it  a  still  more  spectral  appearance. 

Impelled  by  the  strong  hand  that  grasped  her  arm,  Ger¬ 
aldine  soon  found  herself  in  a  room,  in  the  middle  of  which, 
on  a  long  narrow  table,  lav  a  ghastly  spectacle,  from  which, 
hardened  as  Lorenzo  Gaspardo’s  nature  was,  he  recoiled 
with  an  ejaculation  of  horror  and  dismay. 

Like  some  gnarled  and  leafless  tree,  tossed  by  the  tem¬ 
pest,  Prue  flung  her  long  arms  aloft,  while  a  cry  of  mingled 
grief  and  rage  burst  from  her  lips,  more  like  a  wild  animal’s 
than  anything  human. 

“  There’s  Marse  Robert,”  she  cried,  rocking  herself  back¬ 
ward  and  forward,  “all  there’s  left  on  him.  I  found  hirn. 
Tf>  the  cell,  down  suller.  She,  she  murdered  him !” 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  95 

Lorenzo  turned  a  dark,  inquiring  look  upon  Geraldine’s 
face. 

Raising  her  hand,  with  a  still  more  impressive  tone  and 
gesture,  Prue  continued : 

“  Here,  beside  his  dead  body,  I  charge  her  with  the  crime, 
an’  she  can’t,  she  dursen’t  deny  it.” 

Contrition  and  remorse  swept  every  other  feeling  from 
that  crushed  and  desolate  heart.  Covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  Geraldine’s  tears  fell  fast,  as  she  faltered  : 

“  It  is  true — alas!  alas  !  that  I  should  live  to  say  it!  I 
killed  the  man  that  I  know,  too  late,  to  have  been  the  best 
and  truest  friend  I  had.  I  was  mad,  mad !” 

“See!”  cried  the  negress,  exultantly,  “  she  owns  it.  She 
ain’t  goin’  to  escape  me.  I’ll  have  a  constable  here  in  the 
mornin’.  She’s  a  murderess,  an’  shall  die  the  death  of 
one!” 

Lorenzo  Gaspardo  now  spoke : 

“  If  she  is  a  murderess,  she  shall  surely  die  the  death  of 
one,  but  not  in  the  way  you  propose,  Prue.  Do  you  want 
to  drag  your  master’s  name,  as  well  as  mine,  through  all 
the  mire  and  dirt  that  such  a  course  as  that  would  render 
inevitable?  Leave  her  to  me  ;  she  will  be  far  less  likely  to 
escape  the  punishment  she  merits.” 

The  spirit  of  cruelty  and  revenge  had  taken  full  posses¬ 
sion  of  Prue’s  heart,  and  she  was  evidently  unwilling  to  re¬ 
linquish  the  advantage  she  had  gained  over  the  woman  she 
hated.  So  there  was  a  dubious  expression  to  her  counte¬ 
nance  and  tone  as  she  said : 

“  How  am  I  to  be  sure  of  that,  sah?” 

“You  shall  be  an  eye-witness  to  it.” 

“No!  no!”  implored  Geraldine,  in  accents  of  horror; 
“  deliver  me  to  the  nearest  magistrate,  Prue,  but  not  to 
him.” 

“  You  see  which  she  would  rather  you  would  do,”  said 
Gaspardo,  significantly. 

These  words,  together  with  Geraldine’s  evident  reluct¬ 
ance,  turned  the  wavering  scales.  Disengaging  her  dress 
from  the  hands  that  clung  to  it,  she  said  sullenly : 

“Take  her,  then;  you  said  I  should  see  for  myself,  sab, 
an’  you  mustn’t  forgit  it.”  * 

“Never  fear,  Prue;  I  sha’n’t  forget.” 

Though  so  altered  as  to  be  recognizable  in  no  other  way, 
the  garments  worn  and  the  papers  on  them  made  it  clearly 
evident  to  the  Gaspardos  that  the  body  found  by  Prue  was 
that  of  their  unfortunate  brother-in-law. 

In  pursuance  of  their  determination  to  keep  the  whole 
matter  in  their  own  hands,  they  decided  to  have  the  re¬ 
mains  buried  privately,  and  at  night. 

W  ith  a  refinement  of  cruelty  of  which  few  are  capable, 


S3 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Lorenzo  Gaspardo  obliged  Geraldine  to  follow  her  husband 
to  his  nameless  and  untimely  grave. 

So  the  following  night,  a  little  after  twelve,  a  carriage 
containing  three  persons  moved  slowly  down  the  back 
avenue,  and  which  led  to  a  wild,  dreary,  unfrequented 
piece  of  woods,  which  lay  between  two  high  hills. 

The  carriage  was  preceded  by  a  covered  wagon,  and 
which  stopped  by  an  open  grave. 

Chilled  to  the  marrow  by  the  dampness  of  the  chill  De¬ 
cember  night,  Geraldine  sat  listening  to  the  rattling  of  the 
earth  upon  the  rough  coffin ;  a  vague  feeling  of  wonder  at 
her  heart  as  to  how  soon  it  would  fall  upon  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  TRIAL  AND  SENTENCE. 

In  Eagle  Nest,  the  home  of  the  two  brothers,  Lorenzo 
and  Pietro  Gaspardo,  and  which  was  situated  on  a  high, 
lonely,  almost  inaccessible  spot  on  the  river,  sat  two  men 
in  solemn  conclave. 

They  wore  black  masks;  the  walls  of  the  room  being 
hung  and  the  table  in  the  center  of  it  covered  with  cloth  of 
the  same  somber  hue. 

There  was  no  other  furniture,  with  the  exception  of  three 
chairs — one  of  these  being  empty,  and  placed  at  the  further 
end  of  the  table,  those  occupied  by  the  masked  men  being 
at  the  other  end. 

For  full  five  minutes  not  a  word  was  spoken,  the  faces 
of  the  two  being  turned  in  mutual  expectancy  toward  the 
door,  which  now  opened  to  admit  a  man,  also  masked,  who 
led,  or  rather  supported,  a  woman  to  the  vacant  chair, 
whose  trembling  limbs  seemed  inadequate  to  bear  the 
weight  of  the  heavy  manacles  that  bound  the  slender 
wrisis,  and  whose  pale  face  was  rendered  still  more  pallid 
by  the  wealth  of  jetty  hair  which  fell  in  disordered  masses 
around  her. 

Removing  the  manacles,  the  man  took  his  stand  by  the 
door,  standing  there  silent  and  motionless. 

As  though  they  were  desirous  of  striking  terror  to  the 
soul  of  their  helpless  prisoner,  the  two  men  surveyed  her 
for  some  moments  in  silence. 

Then  the  taller  of  them  stretched  out  his  arm,  saying: 

“  Lost  and  guilty  woman!  all  is  discovered.  That  dark 
deed,  which  you  thought  to  be  hidden  from  every  human 
eye,  has  come  to  the  light.  Are  you  prepared  to  acknowl¬ 
edge  your  guilt  and  accept  the  conquences  of  it?” 

Geraldine’s  voice,  though  low,  was  clear  and  resolute  as 
she  said : 

“  l  am  willing  to  acknowledge  all  that  I  am  guilty  of.  I 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


97 


Own — ah!  woe  is  me! — that,  in  a  frenzy  of  terror  and 
despair,  I  struck  the  fatal  blow  that  deprived  my  husband 
of  life.  But  the  other  charge  brought  against  me  is  false. 
I  have  been  blind,  foolish,  weak;  but,  as  God  is  my  judge, 
I  am  guiltless  of  doing  him  any  other  wrong.” 

“  Peace,  woman!”  was  the  stern  reply ;  “  you  do  but  add 
to  your  guilt  by  denying  it.  Will  you  disown  your  own 
handwriting — the  confession  signed  by  your  own  hand?” 

“  It  was  extorted  from  me.  If  this  were  my  last  hour 
on  earth,  I  should  still  protest  my  innocence.” 

“Unfortunately  for  your  protestation  to  be  of  any  avail,’’ 
was  the  cool  response,  “  there  are  too  many  things  to  cor¬ 
roborate  it.  I  believe  that  confession  to  be  true.  And  set¬ 
ting  that  aside,  I  know  from  your  own  lips  that  you  are  a 
murderess!” 

That  pale  face  flushed,  while  the  dark  eyes  glowed  with 
something  of  their  wonted  fires. 

“  And  you  are  a  murderer!” 

And  without  heeding,  if  she  noticed,  the  consternation 
that  these  words  occasioned,  Geraldine  continued  speaking 
in  tones  of  horror  and  anguish,  which  gave  them  added 
intensity  and  meaning : 

“You  killed  my  innocent  baby,  who  never  harmed  you 
or  any  one.  You  threw  it  out  of  the  carriage,  leaving  it 
for  dead  upon  the  road.  I  heard  you  own  and  exult  over 
it,  wnen  you  thought  me  too  insensible,  from  your  bru¬ 
tality,  to  hear  you.  You  are  taking  high-handed  measures 
with  me  for  an  act  into  which  I  was  goaded  by  madness 
and  despair.  What  punishment  do  you  think  that  the  law 
Would  mete  out  to  your  crime?” 

If  there  had  been  any  disposition  to  spare  the  speaker, 
any  touch  of  mercy  or  compassion  in  the  hearts  of  her 
self-constituted  judges,  they  were  destroyed  by  these 
words, . 

Going  to  the  window,  the  two  brothers  conversed  together 
in  low  and  earnest  tones. 

Pietro,  the  younger  brother,  was  in  favor  of  imprison¬ 
ment  or  exile,  his  nature  being  less  hardened,  but  Lorenzo 
would  not  hear  to  this. 

“Such  a  course  would  be  attended  with  innumerable 
dangers,”  he  urged.  “She  got  away  from  us  once,  and 
may  again.  You  heard  what  she  said?  She  has  been  a 
trouble  and  disgrace  to  us  all  her  life,  and  the  only  way  is 
to  silence  her  tongue,  at  once  and  forever.” 

Geraldine  awaited  in  silence  the  result  of  the  ominous 
conference  upon  which  her  life  hung;  separated  from  her 
boy,  her  baby  snatched  from  her  by  so  cruel  a  fate,  a  feel? 
ing  of  despair  had  begun  to  take  possession  of  her. 


98  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

The  brothers  resumed  their  seats.  The  eldei  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

“  The  sentence  that  we  pronounce  upon  you,  and  which 
any  judge  would  pronounce  after  hearing  the  evidence,  is 
— death!" 

A  sudden  shiver  of  horror  roused  Geraldine  to  a  brief 
struggle  against  this  merciless  fate. 

“  I  deny  your  right  to  pronounce  it.  Deliver  me  over  to 
the  law.  Denying  and  extenuating  nothing,  I  will  submit 
to  any  penalty  it  may  inflict.” 

“And  have  our  name  eternally  disgraced?”  was  the 
fierce  response.  ‘  ‘  All  your  shameful  conduct  published  in 
every  paper  throughout  the  land?  Nev'er! 

“  It  is  useless  for  you  to  make  any  appeal  for  mercy,” 
continued  Lorenzo,  speaking  in  a  less  excited,  but  more 
impressive  tone  and  manner;  “your  doom  is  fixed.  A 
week’s  time  will  be  given  you  for  preparation,  and  then 
your  sentence  will  be  executed.  But  you  may,  if  you  will, 
choose  the  manner  of  your  death.” 

“  I  know  you  too  well  to  expect  any  mercy  from  you. 
All  the  favor  I  ask  of  you  is  to  let  me  see  a  minister  of  our 
most  holy  faith.  How  else  am  I  to  make  the  preparation 
you  speak  of?  As  you  hope  for  Heaven’s  mercy,  when  you 
need  its  mercy  most,  I  implore  you  not  to  have  "the  blood 
of  my  soul  on  your  hands !” 

The  two  brothers  were  rigid  Catholics,  placing  implicit 
reliance  upon  the  rites  of  the  Church,  and  this  appeal  evi¬ 
dently  made  a  strong  impression  upon  them. 

Retiring  to  the  window  again,  they  conferred  together 
for  some  minutes. 

Then  returning  to  the  table,  Lorenzo  said : 

“  If  any  way  can  be  devised  by  which  this  favor  can  be 
accorded  you,  safely,  it  shall  be  granted.” 

“  Safely  ?”  echoed  Geraldine,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  “  You 
surely  must  know  that  anything  revealed  under  the  seal  of 
the  confessional  will  be  safe?” 

Lorenzo  took  an  ebony  cross  from  his  bosom. 

“Will  you  swear  that  you  will  reveal  nothing,  except 
under  that  seal?  That  you  will  mention  no  name  or  place 
that  will  tend  to  lead  to  suspicion  or  detection?” 

Geraldine  held  the  cross  to  her  lips. 

“I  swear  it!”  was  the  low  and  solemn  response. 

“Then  you  may  have  a  good  degree  of  confidence  that 
your  request  will  be  granted.  At  all  events,  we  will  use 
our  best  endeavors  to  that  end.  Now  what  death  do  you 
choose  to  die?” 

Though  torn  from  all  that  made  life  pleasant  or  desir¬ 
able,  and  her  heart  so  wrung  with  anguish  that  the  grave 
at  tipcies  seemed  q  yrelcome  refuge,  it  was  not  in  humaij 


A  WIFE'S  cniME.  99 

nature  to  repress  the  involuntary  shudder  called  forth  by 
these  words. 

Twice  did  the  wretched  woman  essay  to  speak,  and  twice 
did  the  words  die  in  an  inarticulate  moan  upon  her  lips. 

Then  she  said : 

“I  have  no  wish  to  express  on  the  subject,  except  that 
it  be  as  quick  and  painless  as  possible.  ” 

Lorenzo  nodded,  and  then  turning  to  the  man  at  the 
door,  said: 

“  Remove  the  prisoner.” 

As  soon  as  the  brothers  were  alone,  Pietro  flung  his 
mask  upon  the  table  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Why  is  all  this  mummery  necessary?  Do  you  suppose 
that  it  prevents  her  from  recognizing  us?” 

“I  know  that  it  will  prevent  her  from  swearing  as  to  our 
identities,”  said  the  other,  “  which  will  be  a  strong  point 
in  our  favor,  should  our  plans  miscarry  or  any  untoward 
event  occur  to  bring  matters  to  the  light.  She  has 
not  seen  our  faces  since  she  was  brought  here,  nor  do  I 
mean  that  she  shall.  As  to  the  rest,  in  the  forms  we  have 
gone  through  with  we  are  not  committing  murder.  I 
meant  that  she  should  have  as  fair  a  trialas  she  would 
have  before  any  court,  and  she  has  had.” 

“  Have  it  your  own  way,”  was  the  response.  “  If  I  had 
piine,  I  should  have  made  quicker  work  of  it.” 

“You  wouldn’t  have  had  any  work  at  all;  you’d  have 
let  the  whole  tiling  drop  through.” 

“  No,  I  wouldn’t.  My  idea  was  to  give  her  a  thorough 
scare,  make  her  think  that  her  life  was  on  the  point  of 
being  taken,  and  then  let  her  off.  And  I  think  it  will  be 
the  best  way  now.  With  her  confession  and  letters  in 
our  possession,  together  with  all  the  proofs  we  have,  we 
should  be  able  to  preserve  such  a  hold  on  her  that  she 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  keep  quiet.” 

“  Keep  quiet?  Not  she,”  retorted  Lorenzo,  enforcing  his 
assertion  with  more  emphatic  language  than  we  care  to 
repeat.  “  It  isn’t  in  her  to  be  quiet  anywhere.  Didn’t  you 
hear  what  she  said  about  the  child?  The  very  first  thing 
she’ll  do  will  be  to  make  a  stir  about  that ;  and  you  know 
as  well  as  I  what  that  will  lead  to.  And  then  there  is 
Prue.  ” 

“What  has  Prue  to  do  with  it?” 

“  A  good  deal — or  she  thinks  she  has,  which  amounts  to 
the  same  thing.  She  loved  her  master  almost  as  much  as 
she  hates  Geraldine,  and  if  we  let  her  off  she’ll  be  just  rav¬ 
ing.  Nothing  will  keep  her  from  publicly  denouncing 
Geraldine  and  getting  her  punished  by  due  process  of  law, 
which  is  the  very  thing  we  want  to  avoid.  No,  the  only 
way  by  which  we  can  insure  safety  to  ourselves  is  by  the 


100 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


way  I  propose.  Setting  everything  else  aside,  her  crimes 
merit  death,  and  die  she  must. 

“And  that  reminds  me,”  added  the  speaker,  rising  to  his 
feet,  “that  Prue  had  better  be  brought  here;  it  will  be 
safer  and  better  every  way.  She  knows  too  much.  There 
is  no  knowing  what  she  will  take  into  her  head  to  do,  and 
I  want  her  where  she  will  be  under  my  own  eye.” 

“  But  supposing  she  refuses  to  be  brought?” 

“  Sh®  won’t  do  that.  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  want  her  to 
keep  guard  over  Geraldine  and  to  see  that  her  sentence  is 
carried  into  execution,  and  she  won’t  want  anything  bet¬ 
ter.  We  couldn’t  have  a  more  faithful  and  vigilant  jailer 
for  our  prisoner  than  old  Prue.” 

Prue  fully  justified  Gaspardo’s  expectations,  entering 
upon  her  new  duties  with  a  zeal  and  alacrity  that  were 
clearly  visible  in  her  countenance  as  she  entered  the  room 
where  Geraldine  was  confined. 

It  was  hard  telling  what  Geraldine’s  feelings  were  as  she 
looked  upon  that  dark,  familiar  face,  and  whose  look  of 
exultation  at  her  misery  it  was  not  easy  to  mistake. 

Weary  of  contending,  hopeless  of  any  escape  from  the 
doom  that  had  been  pronounced  upon  her,  a  feeling  of 
apathy  began  to  creep  over  her,  occasionally  broken  by 
the  penitence  that  swept  across  her  as  she  thought  of  her 
crime  and  how  near  she  was  to  her  final  account. 

One  good  thing  resulted  from  Prue’s  presence;  the  man¬ 
acles  upon  her  wrists  were  removed,  the  sleepless  vigilance 
with  which  she  was  now  watched  rendered  them  un¬ 
necessary. 

Two  nights  later,  Lorenzo  Gaspardo  was  closeted  with  a 
man,  whose  closely-shaven  face  and  garb  betrayed  his 
sacred  calling. 

“  It  seems  right  that  I  should  tell  you  something  of  my 
sister’s  state  of  mind,”  said  the  former,  in  the  soft,  gentle 
tone  that  he  could  so  well  assume.  “  She  has  been  in  deli¬ 
cate  health  for  some  time,  and  like  a  good  many  invalids 
fancies  that  she  is  much  worse  than  she  is — in  fact,  that 
she  is  about  to  die.  I  presume  you  have  met  with  similar 
cases  before,  father?” 

The  good  priest’s  patience  had  been  too  often  taxed  in 
this  respect  for  him  not  to  yield  a  ready  assent  to  this. 

Satisfied  with  the  impression  he  was  making,  Gaspardo 
continued : 

“  Though  there  are  no  indications  that  her  life  may  not 
be  indefinitely  prolonged,  certainly  none  of  immediate  dis¬ 
solution,  as  she  has  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  see  you,  I 
have  not  thought  it  best,  in  her  nervous  condition  of  mind, 
to  thwart  her.” 

“Surely  not,”  said  the  priest.  “You  have  acted  wisely 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


301 


as  well  as  kindly  in  the  matter.  The  relief  and  consola¬ 
tions  of  the  confessional  are  often  of  incalculable  benefit  to 
such.  It  is  the  holy  mission  of  the  Church  to  give  peace 
to  the  troubled  mind — to  remove  even  the  fancied  sorrows 
of  her  children.” 

The  speaker  was  evidently  an  enthusiast  in  his  calling, 
his  mild  blue  eyes  lighting  up  with  zeal  and  earnestness  a3 
he  spoke. 

“  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  feel  in  this  way,  father. 
I  was  somewhat  fearful  that  you  would  consider  me  pre¬ 
sumptuous  in  soliciting  your  holy  offices,  when  there  seemed 
to  be  no  apparent  need  for  them.  There  is  another  thing 
that  I  think  it  right  to  mention.  My  poor  sister  has  cer¬ 
tain  hallucinations,  such  as  considering  that  she  has  com¬ 
mitted  some  great  crime,  and  so  on.  Of  course,  you  will 
pay  no  attention  to  this.” 

Rising,  the  speaker  approached  the  sideboard,  on  which 
was  a  decanter  of  wine. 

Placing  it  on  a  table  beside  the  glowing  fire,  he  filled  a 
glass  with  its  ruby  contents  to  the  brim,  saying: 

“You  must  be  chilled  and  tired  with  your  long,  cold  ride, 
father,  and  in  need  of  some  refreshment.  In  the  mean¬ 
time,  I  will  see  if  my  sister  is  ready  to  receive  you.  ” 

Slowly  sipping  the  wine,  that  was  so  grateful  to  his 
chilled  and  wearied  frame,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
cheerful  blaze  before  him,  the  good  priest  gave  himself  up 
to  the  comforts  of  his  position ;  his  thoughts  very  naturally 
reverting  to  his  kind  and  genial  host. 

“  What  a  truly  Christian  gentleman !”  he  mused.  “  And 
so  kind  and  considerate  to  his  unfortunate  sister.  Rich  and 
generous,  too,  I  should  say,”  glancing  around — “I  wonder 
if  he  wouldn’t  give  something  toward  the  building  of  our 
new  church?” 

While  the  priest  was  pleasing  himself  by  the  thoughts  of 
furthering  what  was  ever  uppermost,  in  his  mind,  Lorenzo 
Gaspardo  took  his  way  to  Geraldine’s  room,  who  was  re¬ 
clining  upon  a  low  couch,  which  she  seldom  left  now. 

She  manifested  neither  surprise  nor  terror  at  his  unex¬ 
pected  entrance,  all  this  was  passed  now. 

After  glancing  around  to  see  that  everything  was  as  it 
should  be,  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  that  could 
give  the  slightest  intimation  of  the  true  facts  of  the  case, 
Gaspardo  said: 

“In  order  that  you  may  not  make  such  a  shipwreck  of 
the  life  upon  which  you  will  soon  enter  as  you  have  made 
of  this,  I  have  succeeded  in  finding,  at  the  expense  of  no 
little  risk  and  effort,  a  priest  to  absolve  your  guilty  soul. 
I  warn  you  to  confine  yourself  strictly  to  your  own  acts. 
No  intimation  of  it  to  this  man  will  save  you  from  the  sen- 


102 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


tence  that  has  bean  pronounced  against  you,  though  it  can 
and  will  cause  his  life  to  pay  the  forfeit,  thus  bringing  the 
guilt  of  two  murders  upon  your  soul !” 

Geraldine  lifted  her  eyes  to  that  hard  and  cruel  face. 

“  Have  you  no  sins  to  be  repented  of,  that  you  judge  me 
so  hardly  for  mine?  I  have  taken  a  solemn  oath  to  reveal 
nothing,  and  have  no  wish,  even  if  I  dared,  to  break  it. 
Life  is  a  burthen,  too  intolerable  to  be  borne,  and  I  look 
forward  with  joy  to  the  time  when  I  shall  leave  it,  and  go 
to  my  husband  and  child.” 

A  faint  sneer  curled  Gaspardo’s  lip. 

“  You  seem  to  love  your  husband  better  dead,  than  you 
ever  loved  him  living.  Do  you  think  that  he  will  care  to 
meet  you ,  his  murderess?” 

“  I  cannot  tell.  I  only  know  that  I  understand  his  worth 
and  prize  his  love  as  I  never  did  before.  I  shall  tell  him 
all,  and  in  the  clearer  light  that  is  now  his,  I  cannot  but 
believe  that  he  will  pity  and  forgive.” 

Despite  the  satisfactory  explanation  that  had  been  given 
him,  there  was  a  strange  feeling  at  the  priest’s  heart  as  he 
followed  his  guide  into  the  room  where  his  penitent  lay. 

Gaspardo  immediately  retreated  to  the  door. 

The  priest’s  face  being  turned  from  him,  raising  his  hand 
with  a  warning  gesture,  that  Geraldine  well  understood, 
he  disappeared  through  it,  leaving  the  two  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  JUDGMENT. 

The  good  priest  gazed  with  an  air  of  benign  compassion 
upon  the  face,  whose  dark,  mournful  eyes  were  turned 
with  singular  intentness  upon  him. 

The  story  he  had  heard,  together  with  her  youth  and 
beauty,  the  nameless  air  of  grace  and  refinement  that  per¬ 
vaded  every  look  and  motion,  gave  an  added  gentleness  to 
his  tone,  as  he  said : 

“  Daughter,  I  have  been  given  to  understand  that  there 
is  some  weight  upon  your  conscience,  for  which  you  desire 
to  obtain  pardon  and  peace.  Speak  freely,  as  you  would 
to  our  common  Father,  whose  minister  I  am,  knowing 
that  all  you  say  will  be  as  safe  with  me  as  with  Him.” 

“Were  I  not  assured  of  this,  father,”  responded  Geral¬ 
dine,  in  a  soft,  clear  voice,  in  which  there  was  no  apparent 
haste  or  agitation,  ‘  ‘  I  should  not  dare  to  reveal  to  human 
ears  a  crime  so  dark  as  mine.  Before  proceeding  further 
I  will  say  that  I  wish  to  direct  your  attention  to  my  sins 
only,  and  to  make  no  allusion  to  any  that  may  have  been 
committed  against  me.” 

“  Surely,  my  child,  that  is  the  proper  spirit  with  which 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


i03 


to  approach  the  confessional.  Our  own  sins,  and  not  the 
sins  of  other  people,  are  what  we  have  to  do  with  at  a  time 
like  this.  -I  trust,  however,  that  you  forgive  all  who  have 
wronged  you.  4  Unless  we  forgive,  we  cannot  be  forgiven.” 

Geraldine  laid  her  hand  upon  the  sorely  wounded  heart, 
which  throbbed  anew  at  this  allusion. 

“I  have  tried,  father,”  was  the  meek  response.  “  But  it 
is  hard,  hard.” 

I  think  it  would  have  touched  Lorenzo  Gaspardo’s  heart 
— if  he  had  any  heart  to  touch — to  have  seen  how  carefully 
Geraldine  refrained  from  casting  blame  upon  any  one  but 
herself  in  the  dark  and  sorrowful  confession  that  fell  from 
her  trembling  lips. 

She  mentioned  no  names,  making  no  allusion  to  either 
of  her  brothers;  and  though  she  hesitated  occasionally  in 
her  choice  of  a  word,  as  if  fearful  of  saying  too  much,  her 
words  and  manner  were  so  collected  and  at  variance  with 
anything  like  fancifulness  or  incoherence,  and  which  he 
was  led  to  expect  from  her  brother’s  story,  that  the  good 
father  was  not  a  little  puzzled  as  she  went  on. 

Geraldine,  on  her  part,  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the 
entire  lack  of  astonishment  and  horror  at  so  dark  a  revela¬ 
tion,  as  well  as  the  alacrity  with  which  he  pronounced  the 
absolution,  [that  fell  like  a  benison  upon  her  perturbed 
spirit. 

Perhaps  some  faint  suspicion  of  the  cause  entered  her 
mind,  for  she  said : 

*  ‘  I  think  that  I  must  have  been  mad  when  I  did  this,  but 
I  am  quite  sane  now.” 

“  He  who  reads  the  heart  notes  and  weighs  every  extenu¬ 
ating  circumstance,”  said  the  priest,  soothingly.  “Now 
that  you  have  obtained  forgiveness,  do  not  let  your 
thoughts  rest  upon  it  any  more.  You  are  young,  and 
have,  I  trust,  many  pleasant  years  before  you.” 

Geraldine  looked  with  mournful  intentness  into  those 
kindly  eyes. 

“  The  young  die  as  well  as  the  old,  father.  The  hours 
appointed  to  me  on  earth  are  very  few,  else  I  had  not  been 
so  anxious  to  unburden  to  you  the  sin  that  weighed  so 
heavily  upon  my  soul.  Now  that  I  have  obtained,  as  I 
humbly  trust,  pardon  and  peace,  I  am  not  only  willing  but 
glad  to  go.” 

“  You  found  my  sister  in  a  rather  peculiar  state  of 
mind?”  said  Gaspardo  a  few  minutes  later,  looking  keenly 
into  the  priest’s  thoughtful  face. 

“  She  certainly  seems  to  be  laboring  under  some  strong 
and  strange  hallucinations.  It  is  almost  pitiful  to  hear  one 
so  young  and  fair  talking  of  death  with  such  a  calm  cer¬ 
tainty  of  its  being  so  near.” 


104 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


“It  is  only  her  morbid  condition  of  mind,”  responded 
Gaspardo,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder.  “Not  that  it  is 
any  less  real  to  her  on  that  account.  I  am  very  glad  you 
have  seen  her,  as  I  think  it  will  be  of  benefit  to  her  in  more 
ways  than  one.  It  is  my  intention  to  take  her  to  a  warmer 
climate  soon ;  this  place  doesn’t  seem  to  agree  with  her. 
As  a  slight  return  for  your  trouble,  allow  me  to  contribute 
a  trifle  to  some  one  of  the  benevolent  objects  in  which  you 
are  interested.” 

The  priest  did  not  glance  at  the  bill  that  the  speaker 
slipped  into  his  hand  until  he  was  on  his  way  home,  his 
heart  being  gladdened  as  he  noted  the  amount. 

“  He  called  it  a  trifle,”  he  thought,  as  he  returned  it  to 
his  pocket,  “  and  it  may  be  so  to  him,  but  it  is  quite  an  im¬ 
portant  item  to  me.” 

Then  his  thoughts  returned  to  his  young  and  interesting 
penitent. 

He  was  fain  to  confess,  with  the  sole  exception  of  the 
assertion  of  her  nearness  to  death,  that  there  was  nothing 
in  her  words  or  manner  to  indicate  a  disordered  mind. 

Was  the  story  she  told  him  the  product  of  a  diseased 
imagination,  or  was  there  some  basis  in  fact  for  it? 

But  even  if  the  latter  proposition  were  true,  and  her 
brother  had  taken  this  method  to  shield  her  from  the  conse¬ 
quences,  what  had  he,  in  the  sacred  character  of  a  con¬ 
fessor,  to  do  with  that? 

With  this  thought  he  dismissed  it  from  his  mind. 

As  Geraldine  listened  to  the  priest’s  retreating  footsteps, 
a  feeling  of  peace  and  tranquillity  settled  upon  her  soul  to 
which  she  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

With  the  heavy  weight  that  had  been  lifted  from  her 
heart,  all  desire  for  life,  all  fear  of  death,  had  vanished. 

Even  Prue  noticed  the  change  in  her,  noting  it  with  a 
feeling  of  sullen  disappointment  at  her  heart,  having 
counted  with  fiendish  satisfaction  on  the  dismay  and  terror 
that  her  helpless  prisoner  would  experience  as  her  doom 
drew  near. 

That  same  night,  a  couple  of  hours  after  midnight,  old 
Prue  was  summoned  into  Gaspardo’s  presence,  who  had 
been  walking  restlessly  about  the  room  ever  since  the 
priest  left. 

“Well,  how  is  she  now?” 

“  She’s  sleepin’  sah,  as  soun’  and  peaceful  as  a  chil’,”  was 
the  discontented  response.  “It’s  mighty  cur’us,  when  she 
don’  know  that  she  be  ’live  in  de  mornin’.” 

“Sleeping,  is  she?”  said  Gaspardo,  entirely  ignoring 
Prue’s  evident  dissatisfaction ;  “  that  is  well.” 

Taking  another  turn  up  and  down  the  room,  Gaspardo 
paused  again  where  the  old  negress  stood. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


105 


“I  don’t  mean  that  she  shall  be  alive  in  the  morning, 
Prue,”  he  said,  in  a  significant  tone.  “What  I  have  to  do 
must  be  done  before  the  dawning  of  another  day.  Did  I 
understand  you  to  say  that  you  wanted  to  help  me?” 

“Yes,  yes,”  cried  the  woman,  with  glittering  eyes.  “  She 
killed  Marse  Robert,  an’  I  want  to  help.  An’  is  she  goin’ 
to  die  to-night?  Oh,  good,  good!  Let  me  go  an’  tell  her.” 

“No,  no,”  responded  Gfaspardo,  impatiently;  “that 
would  spoil  all.  I  am  going  to  manage  this  thing.  You 
must  put  yourself  under  my  guidance,  obeying  my  instruc¬ 
tions  implicitly.  Do  you  understand  what  I  say?” 

“  Yes,  sah.” 

“  Then  come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you,  better  than 
any  words  can,  how  I  intend  to  carry  out  my  purpose.” 

Taking  a  lantern  from  the  table,  he  passed  out  of  the 
room  into  a  long,  narrow  entry,  which  led  to  a  side  en¬ 
trance,  going  down  a  short  flight  of  steps,  and  from  thence 
into  the  open  air. 

He  moved  cautiously  along  until  he  came  to  a  sort  of 
rocky  promontory  that  projected  over  the  river,  whose 
murmurous  flow  could  be  heard  nearly  a  hundred  feet 
below. 

Prue  followed  close  behind,  reaching  the  spot  almost  as 
soon  as  he  did. 

“  Do  you  think  any  one  would  be  likely  to  survive  after 
being  thrown  over  here,  Prue?”  said  Gaspardo,  turning 
toward  her. 

“  No,  sah ;  not  if  dey  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  river.” 

“  I  shall  take  good  care  of  that,”  replied  Gaspardo,  point¬ 
ing  to  a  little  pile  of  stones,  together  with  a  quantity  of 
rope  and  cord.  “  I  have  studied  the  matter  over  a  good 
deal,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this  is  the  surest 
and  safest  way.  In  this  disposition  of  her  no  trace  will  be 
left  behind  that  will  tend  to  arouse  suspicion.” 

The  light  from  the  lantern  fell  full  upon  Prue’s  face,  re¬ 
vealing  clearly  its  expression  of  sullen  dissatisfaction,  and 
which  arrested  Gaspardo’s  attention. 

He  studied  the  face  for  a  moment  and  then  said : 

“  What  is  the  matter?  Don’t  this  plan  suit  you?” 

“  No,  sah,  it  don’t.” 

“Perhaps  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  state  what 
would  suit?”  inquired  Gaspardo,  in  a  tone  of  ironical  polite¬ 
ness  that  only  thinly  veiled  his  impatience,  and  something 
of  distrust,  which  had  begun  to  creep  into  his  heart. 

“  You  need  not  answer  me  here,”  added  Gaspardo,  as 
Prue  was  about  to  speak.  “Come  back  to  the  house,  and 
then  we  will  have  this  thing  out.” 

Having  regained  the  room,  whose  cheerfulness  and 


106  A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 

warmth  contrasted  pleasantly  with  the  dreary  aspect  out¬ 
side — 

“Now,  then,”  he  said,  confronting  Prue,  who  had  fol¬ 
lowed  him,  “let  us  know  what  would  satisfy  you ?  Not 
that  I  mean  to  say  that  it  will  alter  my  plans  any ;  I  don’t 
think  it  will,  but  I  am  curious  to  hear.” 

“There’s  only  one  thing  that  would  rely  satisfy  me,” 
replied  Prue;  “  to  hev  her  hung — hung  as  high  as  Haman, 
an’  all  the  people  hootin’  an’  p’intin’  their  fingers  at  her!” 

“  I  thought  I  had  explained  all  that  to  you,”  interposed 
Gaspardo,  with  visible  impatience. 

“You  say  that  this  covers  Marse  Kobert’s  name  an’ 
your  name  with  shame,  an’  so  I  guv  that  up.  All  I  ask  is 
that  when  her  las’  hour  come — you  say  it  come  now — that 
she  be  given  over  to  me— me!” 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  Prue’s  grief  at  the  loss  of  her 
master  and  hatred  of  Geraldine  had  turned  her  brain; 
there  being  something  akin  to  madness  in  the  fierce  vehe 
mence  with  which  these  words  were  spoken. 

Gaspardo,  who  was  something  of  a  philosopher  in  his 
way,  looked  curiously  at  those  gleaming  eyeballs  and  out¬ 
stretched  arm,  whose  fingers  clutched  the  empty  air  as 
though  it  was  the  throat  of  some  invisible  foe. 

“  Supposing  I  should  consent  to  this,  what  would  you  do 
with  her?” 

“  She’d  die,”  was  the  grim  response;  “an’  that’s  all  you 
want.” 

‘  ‘  Oh,  no,  Prue !  it’s  the  main  thing,  perhaps,  but  it  isn’t 
the  whole  by  any  manner  of  means.  I  don’t  think  you 
quite  understand  me,  Prue,  so  I  will  explain.  If  I  have 
no  love  for  my  sister,  and  I  make  no  pretext  of  having 
any,  I  don’t  feel  toward  her  as  you  seem  to  do.  By  her 
own  confession,  she  has  committed  a  crime  against  the  law 
that  would  render  her  life  a  forfeit  to  it,  and  to  save  the 
family  name  from  dishonor  I  simply  take  the  law  in  my 
own  hands.  That  is  all.” 

“  That  be  all,  hey?” 

That  significant  look  and  tone  made  Gaspardo  change 
color. 

He  turned  his  face  quickly  toward  the  speaker. 

“  What  else  should  there  be?” 

“  I  do  not  know.  I  heard  ye  speak  to  her  one  night  ’bout 
somethin’  else.” 

Gaspardo  remembered  the  time  when  his  anger  got  the 
better  of  his  prudence,  biting  his  lips  with  vexation  as  it 
came  to  his  mind. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

“  You  are  right ;  there  are  other  reasons.  But  what  does 


A  WIFE *S  CRIME, 


107 


that  prove?  Nothing  more  than  that  she  is  in  my  way, 
and  is  to  be  got  out  of  the  way  just  as  easily  as  it  can  be 
done,  and  have  it  done  effectually.  She  isn’t  going  to  be 
given  over  to  your  tender  mercies,  you  may  make  sure  of 
that.  Now  the  question  is,  whether  you  are  going  to  help 
me  or  not?  Situated  as  you  are,  there  is  no  other  course 
for  you  to  take.” 

There  was  a  peculiar  look  in  Gaspardo’s  eye  as  he 
uttered  the  last  sentence,  and  which  produced  a  marked 
change  in  Prue. 

For  the  first  time  the  thought  struck  her  that  it  was 
hardly  prudent,  in  such  a  lonely,  out-of-the-way  place,  to 
arouse  the  fears  or  resentment  of  a  man  wdio  had  so  little 
scruple  in  removing  any  one  who  stood  in  his  way. 

“  Of  course,  I’s  willing  to  help,  sah,”  she  said,  humbly. 
“  I  didn’t  mean  nothin’  by  what  I  said,  ’cept  that  I  wanted 
to  be  sure  on’t.” 

Gaspardo  was  quick  to  see  and  follow  up  his  advantage. 

“I  hope  you  didn’t,  Prue;  because  that  is  a  game  that 
two  can  play  at,  and  in  which  you  would  be  very  likely  to 
get  worsted.  You  are  already  seriously  implicated  in  this 
affair,  and  it  is  my  intention  that  you  shall  take  an  equal 
snare  in  its  completion — though,  of  course,  under  my  direc¬ 
tion.  Do  you  understand  me?” 

“  I  understand  that  I’s  to  help,  sah,  and  do  prezactly  as 
you  tell  me.” 

During  this  conversation,  Gaspardo  had  removed  his 
boots,  substituting  in  their  place  a  pair  of  felt  slippers. 

Now  taking  a  bottle  and  sponge  from  the  table,  he  opened 
the  door,  and,  pointing  in  the  direction  which  led  to  Ger¬ 
aldine’s  room,  said : 

“  Then  take  the  lantern  and  go  before  me.  No  noise, 
mind !” 

Pausing  by  the  door,  Gaspardo  whispered : 

“  Go  in  and  see  if  she  is  still  sleeping.  Take  special  note 
if  she  wears  any  garment  or  ornament  with  her  name  or 
any  mark  on  it.” 

The  harsh  grating  of  the  key  as  it  turned  in  the  lock 
roused  Geraldine. 

Opening  her  eyes,  she  fixed  them — with  a  look  that  had 
not  the  slightest  touch  of  fear  or  resentment—  upon  the 
dark  and  evil  face  that  bent  over  her. 

41  Is  that  you,  Prue?  I  have  had  such  a  sweet,  restful 
sleep.  ” 

Old  Prue  scowled. 

“I  wonder  that  yer  conscience  will  let  ye  sleep.” 

“I  wonder,  too,”  was  the  meek  response.  “But  since  I 
have  seen  the  good  priest,  the  heavy  weight  has  been  lifted 
from  my  heart.  I  had  such  a  beautiful  dream,  I  thought 


108 


A  WIFE ’8  CRIME. 


1  saw  my  husband  and  child ;  that  my  husband  put  my 
baby  in  my  arms,  and  then,  putting  his  own  arms  around 
us  both,  kissed  me.” 

The  old  woman’s  scowl  was  darker  than  before  ;  had  it 
not  been  for  the  sharp  ears  that  she  knew  were  listening 
outside,  the  rage  that  filled  her  soul  at  these  words  would 
have  found  audible  expression. 

“Ye  had  better  sleep  while  ye  can,”  she  muttered,  re¬ 
treating  toward  the  door. 

Making  a  slight  change  in  her  position,  Geraldine  closed 
her  eyes,  sinking  into  another  slumber  quite  as  peaceful 
and  profound. 

As  soon  as  Prue  was  convinced  of  this,  she  went  to  the 
door,  and,  placing  her  finger  on  her  lip,  beckoned  to  GaS' 
pardo,  who  was  leaning  against  the  wall  outside.  • 

Entering  with  noiseless  step,  he  stood  beside  the  couch 
where  Geraldine  lay,  a  peaceful  look  brooding  over  her 
face,  such  as  a  child  might  wear. 

But  if  Gaspardo  noted  this,  it  brought  no  tender  and 
subduing  recollections  to  soften  his  hard  heart. 

He  looked  at  her  intently  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  to 
make  sure  that  her  slumber  was  as  profound  as  it  seemed, 
and  then  saturating  the  sponge  with  the  contents  of  the 
bottle,  which  gave  forth  a  peculiar  penetrating  odor,  held 
it  within  a  few  inches  of  the  mouth  and  nostrils. 

Carefully  watching  the  effect,  which  was  very  soon 
visible  in  the  deep  lethargy  that  seemed  to  steep  the 
senses,  he  gradually  brought  the  sponge  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  slightly- opened  lips  until  it  almost  touched 
them,  and  through  which  the  breath  came  slower,  and 
slower,  and  finally  seemed  to  cease  altogether. 

Startled  by  the  sudden  pallor  that  overspread  the  face, 
Gaspardo  dropped  the  sponge,  placing  his  fingers  on  the 
wrist,  but  found  no  pulse  there. 

“Prue,  Prue!”  he  shouted. 

Approaching  the  couch,  Prue  lifted  up  the  head,  which 
rolled  limp  and  helpless  over  her  arm,  and  then  laid  it 
back  upon  the  pillow. 

“  What  does  it  mean?”  inquired  Gaspardo,  as  she  turned 
toward  him. 

‘It  means  that  she  has  not  only  cheated  the  gallows, 
but  you  /”  replied  the  woman,  with  a  short  laugh. 

“  Dead?”  said  the  other. 

“Dead!”  repeated  Prue. 

“  Did  you  mean  to  do  it?”  she  added,  glancing  at  the 
bottle  and  sponge. 

“  No;  not  in  this  way.  It  was  my  intention  to  produce 
unconsciousness,  and  so  save  trouble  on  both  sides.  But  it 
doesn’t  matter;  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 


109 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 

“  Can  you  find  your  way  to  the  place  I  showed  you?” 

Prue  nodded. 

“Then  take  the  lantern,  and  go  before  me.” 

The  woman  obeyed,  and  taking  up,  not  only  the  body, 
but  the  light,  narrow  mattress  on  which  it  lay,  Gaspardo 
followed  her. 

Being  very  strong  and  muscular,  he  did  not  pause  once 
in  his  swift  and  stealthy  stride,  though  he  was  evidently 
glad  to  lay  down  his  burden  as  he  reached  the  high  point 
upon  the  river,  and  which  he  had  selected  for  the  comple¬ 
tion  and  covering  up  of  his  dark  work. 

After  pausing  a  few  moments  for  breath,  he  proceeded 
to  bind  the  body  of  his  victim  to  the  mattress  by  means  of 
the  cords  he  had  provided. 

Having  done  this,  with  the  assistance  of  Prue,  he  fash¬ 
ioned  one  of  the  sheets  into  a  bag,  by  knotting  the  corners 
of  it,  so  securing  it  to  the  mattress  that,  when  filled  with 
stones,  it  would  turn  over  in  its  descent,  bringing  tiie  body 
downward  upon  its  face. 

Having  made  sure  of  this,  he  turned  to  Prue,  who  was 
silently  watching  him. 

“  Before  we  fill  the  bag  we  had  better  get  the  mattress 
nearer  to  the  bank.” 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Gaspardo  passed  around 
to  the  head  of  it,  and  stepping  cautiously  backward,  drew 
it  along. 

A  moment  later  the  place  upon  which  he  stood,  to  the 
extent  of  four  feet  or  more,  suddenly  gave  way,  precipitat¬ 
ing  him  down  into  the  dark  vortex  below. 

Uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  Prue  sprung  back,  thereby  nar¬ 
rowly  escaping  the  same  fate. 

Throwing  herself  down  upon  her  face,  she  listened  shud- 
deringly  to  the  rattle  of  the  stones  and  earth  as  they  struck 
against  the  shelving  cliffs  in  their  descent. 

Lifting  her  head,  she  looked  around. 

“They’re  both  gone,”  she  muttered,  rising  to  her  feet; 
“  an’  I’s  mighty  glad  on  it,  too.  If  this  yer  ain’t  a  judg¬ 
ment  I  do’  know  what  is.” 

And  then,  as  if  she  feared  some  judgment  might  over¬ 
take  her,  Prue  ran  down  the  rocky,  precipitous  path  to  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

bob’s  dream. 

It  was  ten  minutes  past  nine,  and  all  was  quiet  under 
the  humble  roof  of  the  Browns. 

Little  Isabel  had  been  over  a  week  in  the  tender,  motherly 
care  of  Mrs.  Brown,  and  having  entirely  recovered  from  the 


110 


A  WIFE *S  CRIME. 


rough  treatment  to  which  she  had  been  subjected,  and 
from  whose  naturally- to-be-expected  result  she  had  been  so 
providentially  delivered,  was  beginning  to  blossom  into  all 
the  infantine  graces  which  made  her  so  sweet  and  attract¬ 
ive  to  at  least  two  of  her  new-found  friends. 

It  was  hard  to  tell  what  Mr.  Brown  thought  of  this  new 
accession  to  his  household. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  but  if  actions  go  for 
anything  he  viewed  with  great  dissatisfaction  the  increased 
expense  it  would  bring,  and  this  feeling  was  not,  perhaps, 
to  be  wondered  at  when  one  looked  at  his  gray  head,  and 
thought  of  the  hard  toil  by  which  he  had  been  able  to  make 
such  scant  provision  for  his  old  age. 

In  the  meantime  he  kept  away  from  the  child  as  much 
as  possible,  as  if  he  feared  that  her  beauty  and  winning 
ways  would  obtain  too  strong  an  influence  over  his  heart. 

Mrs.  Brown,  like  the  wise  and  prudent  wife  that  she  was, 
said  nothing,  trusting  that  time,  and  the  presence  of  the 
babe,  that  was  becoming  every  day  more  precious  to  her, 
would  do  better  for  her  than  any  words  could. 

They  were  early  sleepers  at  Mr.  Brown’s,  and  on  the 
night  alluded  to  the  mistress  of  the  house  was  the  only  one 
that  was  in  the  cozy,  old-fashioned  kitchen,  all  the  rest 
having  retired. 

She  was  busy  setting  some  yeast  to  rise  for  to  morrow’s 
baking,  when  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Robert,  who  had 
stolen  softly  down  the  stairs. 

“Why,  Robert,  I  thought  you  were  fast  asleep  by  this 
time,”  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  mild  reproof. 

'“  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  a  moment,  a’ntie,  an’  jist 
look  at  baby.  Don’t  she  look  sweet?”  added  the  boy,  going 
to  the  cradle,  which  he  had  brought  down  from  the  garret 
for  the  benefit  of  his  baby  guest,  and  in  which  he  had  lain 
during  his  own  babyhood. 

Having  admired  the  pretty  picture  presented  by  the 
sleeping  child  to  his  heart’s  content,  Bob,  as  he  was  gener¬ 
ally  called  by  every  one  but  his  aunt,  approached  the 
table  where  she  stood. 

“Aunt  Jane,  you  know  the  pocket-book  I  found  and 
gave  you  the  mornin’  after  I  brought  baby  here?  Did  you 
tell  him  anythin’  ’bout  it?” 

Here  the  speaker  pointed  to  the  bedroom,  through  whose 
half-open  door  could  be  heard  heavy  breathing,  from  some 
one  in  a  deep  slumber. 

Mrs.  Brown  shook  her  head,  while  a  somewhat  troubled, 
disconcerted  look  disturbed  her  usually  placid  face. 

“No,  not  yet.  There  ain’t  no  hurry  ’bout  it.” 

“’Cause  if  I  can’t  find  the  poor  lady  that  lost  it  it  be¬ 
longs  to  her  S'1  said  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  cradle. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Ill 


u  That’s  jesfc  wliat  I’ve  been  thinkin’,  lad.  ’Taint  no 
secb  wonderful  sum — ’bout  a  hundred  dollars — an’  the  little 
thing  may  need  it.  So  I  thought  that  I’d  put  it  away  for 
her,  an’  not  say  nothin’  ’bout  it,  at  present,  to  nobody.’’ 

“Oh!  thank  you,  a’ntiel”  cried  the  boy,  throwing  his 
arms  around  the  neck  of  the  speaker.  “  I  knew  you’d 
think  an’  do  jest  the  best  way.  I  think  you’re  jest  the 
best  an’  lightest  woman  in  the  world !  you  see  baby’ll  want 
little  dresses  an’  things,  an’  you’ll  know  jest  what  she 
needs,  an’  get  ’em.” 

Mrs.  Brown  kissed  the  boy,  her  dead  sister’s  son,  and 
whom  she  loved  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  her  own. 

She  could  never  bear  the  slightest  reflection  against 
“  John,”  though  it  might  he  in  praise  of  herself. 

“Your  uncle  means  to  do  what’s  right,  too;  there  ain't 
a  better  man  nowheres.  Only  he  don’t  see  things  always 
jest  as  I’d  like  to  have  him.  You  see,  he  has  to  work  so 
hard,  an’  ain’t  so  young  as  he  was ;  an’  it  looks  sort  o’  dis¬ 
couragin’  to  have  another  mouth  to  feed.  Mebby  I’ll  have 
to  use  the  money  for  somethin’  besides  dresses,  an’  sech, 
but  the  little  mite  that  the  child  eats,  jest  now,  ain’t  goin’ 
to  kill  nobody.” 

The  next  evening  Bob  was  having  the  little  frolic  with 
Isabel  that  the  two  always  had  after  supper,  and  in  which 
the  child  was  unusually  gleesome  and  winning,  at  least  it 
seemed  so  to  the  warm-hearted  boy,  who  was  becoming  so 
strongly  attached  to  her. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  clearing  away  the  supper  things,  and 
her  husband  sitting  by  the  fire  not  far  from  where  Bob  sat 
with  Isabel  on  his  knee. 

Perceiving  that  his  uncle  was  looking  at  her,  which  he 
seldom  did,  when  anybody  was  by,  the  boy  ventured  to 
say: 

“Ain’t  she  pretty  and  cunnin’,  uncle?” 

“  Pretty  is  that  pretty  does,”  was  the  sententious  and  not 
very  sympathetic  reply. 

“Ay,  but  she  does  pretty,”  persisted  Bob;  “it’s  her 
sweet,  cunnin’  ways  that  I  like  most.  You  mean  to  keep 
her,  don’t  you,  uncle?” 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

“It’s  ruther  resky,  lad,  fur  a  man  of  my  years  to  take 
any  more  responsibilities  than  he’s  got  already.” 

“  But  you  wouldn’t— you  couldn’t  turn  her  out  of  doors?” 
faltered  Bob,  his  arms  tightening  around  the  child  as  he 
spoke. 

“  That  don’t  foller;  there’s  a  place  an’  means  pervidedfur 
all  sech.” 

“  You  mean  the  poor-house?  Oh,  uncle,  I  can’t  bear  the 
thoughts  of  her  goin’  there — an’  she  sech  a  little  mite  of  a 


112 


A  WIFE9 8  CRIME. 


thing,  too  I  I  remember  goin’  there  to  see  old  Daddy  Colby, 
an’  everythin’  was  so  mixed  up  an’  disagreeable.  It  ain’t  a 
nice  place  at  all !” 

“  It’s  plenty  good  ’nough!”  retorted  Mr.  Brown,  sharply. 
“  Them  that  hain’t  no  home  nor  means  mustn’t  be  so  per- 
tic’ler.  ” 

“  But  I’m  gittin'  to  be  sech  a  big  boy  now,  that  I  can  git 
half  a  man’s  wages,  an’  I’ll  give  all  I  earn  to  you.” 

The  old  man  looked  keenly  into  those  earnest,  eager 
eyes.  v 

“Ay;  but  I  thought  you  were  going  to  school  this  win¬ 
ter,  lad?” 

“Uncle,  if  you’ll  keep  baby,  I’ll  give  up  going  to  school.” 

“If  you’ll  agree  to  that,  I’ll  keep  her,  at  least,  fur  a 
spell.  Not  that  I’d  make  a  pint  on’t,  if  I  didn’t  think  your 
goin’  to  school  any  more  wasn’t  sheer  foolishness.” 

“  I  had  sech  a  strange  dream  last  night  ’bout  her  poor 
mother,”  said  Bob,  turning  to  his  aunt,  whose  face  showed 
her  silent  sympathy  and  interest.  “I  thought  she  stood 
holdin’  Isabel  jist  as  she  did  when  I  fust  saw  her,  only  it 
was  by  a  river.  She  put  the  child  in  my  arms,  jist  as  she 
did  then,  sayin’,  ‘  Take  good  care  of  my  baby,  Bob.’  Then 
a  big  wave  came  an’  took  her  away.  I  sometimes  think 
that  I  shall  see  her  again,  somewheres.  Anyway,  I  mean 
to  do  jist  as  she  said.” 

“All  I’ve  got  to  say,”  said  Mr.  Brown,  rising  from  his 
chair,  “is  that  if  you’ll  stick  to  your  agreement,  I’ll  stick 
to  mine.  But  I  think  you’d  better  sleep  on’t;  you  may 
change  your  mind  in  the  momin’.  You’d  better  be  off  to 
bed  now.  I’m  a-goin  to  take  the  boat  airly  in  the  mornin’, 
an’  row  up  the  river  a  piece,  an’  shall  want  you  to  go  with 
me.  I  promised  to  take  Dr.  Graham  some  butter  and 
eggs,  an’  we  can  bring  back  some  shingles  to  fix  the  barn 
with.” 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHAT  BOB  FOUND  IN  THE  RIVER. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  generally  the  last  one  up,  being  one  of 
those  women  mentioned  in  Proverbs,  who  “see  well  to  the 
ways  of  her  household.” 

Though  she  had  not  thought  it  prudent  to  express  it  by 
words,  she  had  sympathized  strongly  with  her  nephew  in 
having  to  relinquish  what  he  had  been  counting  upon  for 
so  many  months,  knowing  well  the  effort  it  cost  him. 

She  had  had  the  care  of  him  ever  since  he  was  a  baby, 
laid  in  her  arms  by  his  dying  mother,  commended  by  her 
last  breath  to  her  love  and  care. 

JIad  he  not  been  the  affectionate,  conscientious  boy  that 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


113 


he  was,  her  heart  must  have  gone  out  toward  him  with  more 
than  common  sympathy  and  tenderness ;  as  it  was,  no  son 
was  ever  loved  better,  or  deserved  it  more. 

She  did  not  share  her  husband’s  ideas  in  regard  to  what 
he  called  “  book  lamin’ ;”  it  being  one  of  her  deeply -cher¬ 
ished  convictions  that  Bob  had  possibilities  in  him  that 
would,  if  allowed  to  develop,  place  him  far  above  the  po¬ 
sition  in  which  he  was  born. 

So,  for  the  first  time,  there  was  something  like  dissatis¬ 
faction  at  her  heart  as  she  looked  at  the  little  interloper, 
who  was  now  soundly  sleeping,  as  she  thought  to  what  her 
advent  might  lead. 

As  soon  as  she  was  sure  that  her  husband  was  sleeping, 
she  went  up  to  Bob’s  room,  ostensibly  to  see  if  he  was 
warm,  but  really  to  say  some  comforting  words  to  him. 

Bob  generally  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  his  head  touched  the 
pillow,  but  he  was  wide  awake  now,  and  Mrs.  Brown  felt 
that  his  cheek  was  moist  as  she  touched  her  lips  to  it. 

“I  shall  be  sorry  that  baby  came,  if  it’s  going  to  make 
my  boy  unhappy.” 

“Oh,  it  ain’t  that,  auntie;  I'm  e^er  so  much  happier 
since  it  came.  The  house  seems  another  sort  of  place  now, 
an’  I’m  sure  that  you  love  the  dear  little  thing,  and  would 
hate  to  part  with  her.  I’d  do  twice  as  much  to  keep  her 
from  goin’  to  the  poor-house;  but  I’m  dreadfully  disap¬ 
pointed  about  not  goin’  to  school.  Don’t  you  think  uncle 
a  little  hard?” 

“  He  don’t  mean  to  be,  Robert;  yer  uncle  has  a  real  kind 
heart,  if  you  only  come  down  to  it.  You  see  it’s  ruther 
hard  fur  him,  too.” 

“  Why,  settin’  aside  baby,  there  ain’t  only  three  on  us; 
an’  there’s  the  fruit  we  sell,  an’  all  the  milk,  butter  an’ 
eggs.  I  don’t  see  how  we  can  be  so  dreadful  poor.” 

“We  wouldn’t  be  if  twan’t  for  the  mortgage.  It  takes 
all  we  can  rake  an’  scrape  to  pay  the  int’rest  on’t.  If  we 
should  fail  to  do  this  we’d  be  pretty  sure  of  bein’  turned 
out  of  house  an’  home  before  a  great  while.” 

“I  forgot  about  the  mortgage,”  said  Bob,  in  quite  an* 
other  tone.  “  Yes,  it  is  hard  for  uncle,  I  know;  an’  I  mean 
to  stay  home  an’  help  him  all  I  can.  It’s  tough  fur  me, 
too.  I  was  thinkin’,  before  you  come  up,  how  hard  you 
an’  uncle  had  worked  all  your  life,  an’  with  nothin’  to 
show  for’t,  as  I  can  see.  Uncle  thinks  there  ain’t  no  good 
in  learnin’,  but  I  know  that  there  are  a  good  many  ways 
that  he  could  have  done  better  if  he  had  had  more  schoolin’ ; 
an’  I  don’t  want  to  go  through  my  whole  life  an’  not  know 
more’n  I  do  now.” 

“  You  ain’t  goin’  to,”  was  the  soothing  response.  “  You 
jest  go  on,  an’  do  the  very  best  you  can,  an’  see  if  some  way 


114 


A  WIFE'S  (ffilMK 


don’t  open  after  a  spell.  I’ve  often  noticed,  if  we*re  care¬ 
ful  to  do  that,  it  often  does,  quite  onexpected.” 

Bob  was  up  before  the  sun  the  next  morning,  and  after 
taking  an  early  breakfast,  the  uncle  and  nephew  took  their 
way  down  to  the  river,  which  was  only  a  short  distance 
from  the  house,  and  whose  smooth  surface  was  glittering 
in  the  light  of  the  early  dawn. 

It  was  one  of  those  mild,  clear  days  that  we  sometimes 
have  in  the  early  part  of  December,  and  which  seemed 
more  like  the  early  fall. 

“  It  looks  as  if  we  was  goin’  ter  have  an  open  winter,” 
said  Mr.  Brown,  as  they  pushed  off,  rowing  up  the  stream. 
“  It  was  cold  enough  last  year  at  this  time.” 

Whether  it  was  the  influence  of  the  bright  and  pleasant 
morning,  or  the  comforting  words  of  the  preceding  night, 
Bob’s  face  wore  its  usual  cheerful  aspect. 

Mr.  Brown  made  no  allusion  to  their  conversation  the 
evening  before,  but  his  nephew  did  not  forget  it  if  he  did. 

“  I  have  slept  upon  what  I  said  to  you  last  night,  uncle, 
and  I’m  of  the  same  mind  still.” 

“  All  right,  lad.  I  hope  you  won’t  be  sorry  for’t.” 

“  I  don’t  think  I  shall  be — not  for  that,”  was  the  thought¬ 
ful  response. 

Then,  a  moment  later: 

“You’ll  keep  baby?” 

“  Sartin.  That  is,  if  nobody  comes  that  she  belongs  to.” 

“  I  don’t  mean  to  give  her  up,  not  if  I  can  help  it,  to  no¬ 
body  but  her  mother;  there  hain’t  nobody  else  got  any 
right  to  her.  You  wouldn’t  let  those  wicked  men  have 
her,  uncle,  who  treated  her  so  cruelly?” 

“  I  wouldn’t  let  nobody  have  her  that  would  do  her  any 
harm,  not  if  I  knowed  it,”  said  Mr.  Brown,  whose  slow, 
measured  accents  were  in  marked  contrast  to  Bob’s  excited 
tone  and  manner. 

“What’s  that  over  yonder?”  exclaimed  Bob,  suddenly 
breaking  the  silence  that  followed. 

“Where?”  said  Mr.  Brown,  shielding  his  eyes  from  the 
sun,  and  looking  in  the  direction  toward  which  the  boy 
pointed. 

‘  ‘  Why,  there,  right  under  those  tall  cliffs ;  don’t  you  see 
it?” 

“Yes,  I  do  now,”  responded  the  other.  “  Looks  like  a 
wreck,  as  though  there  had  been  an  accident.  We’d  better 
go  and  see.” 

Changing  the  course  of  the  boat,  they  rowed  to  the  oppo¬ 
site  side,  where  the  dark,  beetling  rocks  rose  up  many  feet 
above  them. 

The  water  had  worn  into  the  stone  and  earth  so  as  to 
form  a  little  curve  or  inlet,  and  here  could  be  seen  a  long, 


A  WIFE 'S  CRIME. 


115 


narrow,  flat  substance  of  some  kind,  which  moved  gently 
to  and  fro  by  the  swelling  of  the  tide,  being  kept  in  position 
by  the  rocks,  whose  sharp,  jagged  points  could  be  seen  so 
clearly  beneath  the  clear,  shadow  water. 

As  they  approached  it,  Bob  rose  up  in  the  boat. 

“  Uncle!”  lie  cried,  excitedly,  "  it's  a  woman!  I  can  see 
her  dress  and  long,  black  hair.” 

Spurred  on  by  this  Mr.  Brown  urged  the  boat  forward. 
Then  he  paused. 

“We  can't  go  any  nearer  without  gittin’  aground.” 

Bob’s  only  reply  was  to  roll  up  his  trousers  and  spring 
into  the  water. 

Wading  along  a  few  steps  without  letting  go  of  the  boat. 
Bob  reached  forward,  and  seizing  a  rope  which  was  at¬ 
tached,  as  he  now  saw,  to  something  which  looked  like  a 
bed,  drew  it  toward  him,  thus  bringing  the  face  of  the  per¬ 
son  that  lay  on  it  clearly  into  view. 

“ Uncle !”  screamed  the  boy,  “it’s  her— the  poor,  pretty 
lady !  She’s  tied  with  ropes  on  to  this  thing.  Help  me  to 
get  her  free.” 

Without  wasting  any  time  in  words,  Mr.  Brown  took  out 
his  jack-knife,  and  both  setting  to  work,  the  ropes  were 
soon  unbound,  and  the  insensible  form  was  lifted  into  the 
boat. 

“  Is  she  dead?”  said  Bob,  as  he  chafed  the  cold  hands, - 
while  his  uncle  doubled  up  his  overcoat  and  placed  it  under 
the  head. 

“I  don’t  know,”  responded  Mr.  Brown,  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  pale  face  and  closed  eyes ;  “if  she  is,  she 
was  dead  ’fore  she  was  put  into  the  water,  fur  her  face  an’ 
shoulders  ain’t  the  least  mite  wet,  an’  there  ain’t  no  bruise 
on  her,  as  I  can  see.” 

The  mattress  had  fallen  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  the 
upper  part  of  it  higher  than  the  lower,  the  ragged  points  of 
the  rocks  on  which  it  lay  keeping  it  in  position ;  so  that, 
while  the  feet  were  immersed  in  water,  the  head  and 
shoulders  were  quite  dry. 

The  elasticity  of  the  substance  on  which  she  lay  had  pre¬ 
vented  Geraldine  from  receiving  any  injurious  effect  from 
the  fall.  On  the  contrary,  the  shock  of  it,  no  doubt,  pre¬ 
served  her  life,  as  it  tended  to  neutralize  the  deadening 
effect  of  the  powerful  drug  she  had  inhaled. 

A  little  distance  from  where  the  mattress  lay  a  man’s  hat 
floated ;  no  other  trace  being  seen  of  Gaspardo,  who,  struck 
senseless  by  his  fall,  had  gone  down  beneath,  the  water,  a 
fitting  end  to  a  life  so  wild  and  lawless. 

“We  had  better  take  her  to  Dr.  Graham’s,”  said  Bob. 
“  It’s  the  nearest  place,  an’  then,  being  a  doctor,  he’ll  know 
jest  what  to  do.” 


116 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Impelled  by  the  danger  of  any  delay,  the  strong  arms 
that  held  the  oars  sent  the  boat  swiftly  over  the  water. 

As  if  roused  by  the  rapid  motion,  Geraldine  uttered  a 
faint  moan,  unclosing  her  eyes,  relapsing  almost  imme¬ 
diately  into  insensibility. 

“  She’s  alive!”  cried  Bob,  as  he  noticed  this.  “  Oh,  un¬ 
cle,  if  we  can  only  get  there  in  time !” 

They  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  place  alluded  to,  River- 
view,  whose  smoothly  shaven  lawn  came  down  to  the 
water. 

There  were  broad  stone  steps  leading  to  the  river,  on  the 
banks  of  which  was  a  boat-house. 

Beyond  could  be  seen  the  main  building,  whose  deep 
windows  and  broad  verandas  and  porticoes  stood  out  very 
clearly  from  the  belt  of  leafless  trees  that  surrounded 
them. 

A  man  was  standing  on  the  portico  fronting  the  river; 
his  pale  face,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  leaned  against 
one  of  the  pillars  of  it,  showing  him  to  be  one  of  Dr. 
Graham’s  patients,  a  limited  number  of  whom  he  treated 
at  his  own  home. 

Springing  out  of  the  boat,  Bob  ran  up  the  steps,  nor  did 
he  slacken  his  pace  until  he  reached  the  man’s  side,  to 
whom  he  cried,  breathlessly : 

‘‘Where’s  Dr.  Graham?  We’ve  found  a  woman  in  the 
river,  that’s  only  just  alive !”  * 

“  The  doctor  is  out,”  said  the  man. 

Stepping  up  to  an  open  window,  the  speaker  notified  some 
one  inside,  and  then  followed  Bob  down  to  the  boat  where 
Geraldine  lay,  looking,  in  her  pallor  and  stillness,  like 
some  beautiful  statue. 

Bending  over  her,  the  man  made  a  motion  as  if  he  would 
lift  her  up,  and  then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  his  phy¬ 
sical  disability,  stepped  aside  and  let  Bob  take  his  place. 

Assisted  by  his  nephew,  Mr.  Brown  took  Geraldine  up  to 
the  house,  being  met  at  the  door  by  Mrs.  Graham,  who 
conducted  them  to  her  own  room. 

The  good  lady’s  sympathies  were  strongly  moved  as  she 
looked  at  her  unfortunate  guest,  and  being,  as  the  wife  of 
a  physician,  well  versed  in  the  measures  necessary  in  such 
cases,  under  her  gentle  ministrations  something  of  her 
natural  color  and  warmth  returned  to  Geraldine’s  face. 
Opening  her  eyes,  she  looked  around,  but  evidently  took  in 
no  sense  of  her  surroundings,  as,  after  glancing  wildly 
about,  she  murmured  something  and  then  closed  them 
again. 

“  I  wish  Francis  would  come,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  ceas¬ 
ing,  in  evident  perplexity,  her  renewed  efforts  at  restora¬ 
tion. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


117 


Hearing  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  she  looked  around,  being 
startled  by  the  sight  of  her  husband’s  patient  standing  in 
the  open  doorway. 

“Mr.  Smith!”  she  exclaimed,  drawing  the  counterpane 
over  Geraldine’s  uncovered  shoulders. 

“I  beg  pardon,  but  is  there  not  something  that  I  can 
do?” 

“Certainly  not,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  in  a  tone  of  dis¬ 
pleasure.  “  What  could  you  do  here?” 

Then  remembering  the  doubts  that  her  husband  had  ex¬ 
pressed  as  to  his  patient’s  entire  sanity,  she  added,  in  a 
gentler  tone : 

“  If  you  would  kindly  watch  for  the  doctor,  telling  him 
to  come  directly  here?” 

As  if  glad  to  be  of  service,  Mr.  Smith  instantly  disap¬ 
peared. 

In  a  few  minutes  Dr.  Graham  entered,  to  his  wife’s  great 
relief,  who  gladly  relinquished  her  charge  to  him. 

Dr,  Graham  made  a  careful  examination  of  his  new  pa¬ 
tient. 

“  She  is  very  ill,”  he  said,  in  reply  to  his  wife’s  inquiring 
look ;  ‘  ‘  evidently  suffering,  not  only  from  exposure,  but 
from  some  heavy  strain  upon  the  nervous  system.  Her 
constitution,  however,  which  seems  to  be  strong  and 
elastic,  is  greatly  in  her  favor.  You  say  that  Mr.  Brown 
and  his  nephew  rescued  her;  where  are  they?” 

“  They  are  here;  I  asked  them  to  stay  until  you  came, 
thinking  you  would  like  to  see  them.” 

“  That  was  right;  I  can  tell  better  what  to  do  for  her  if  I 
know  all  the  circumstances.” 

Half  an  hour  later  Dr.  Graham  and  his  wife  were  listen¬ 
ing  to  Bob’s  account  of  all  he  knew  about  his  strange 
patient,  to  which  he  listened  with  deep  interest,  but  with 
less  surprise  than  might  be  expected. 

“It  is  a  strange  story,”  remarked  the  doctor,  as  Bob 
concluded,  “almost  incredible,  I  should  say,  if  so  many 
strange  things  did  not  come  to  my  knowledge,  in  my  pro¬ 
fession,  especially.  The  poor  lady  seems  to  have  her  worst 
enemies  among  those  who  should  be  her  best  friends,  not 
an  unusual  circumstance,  perhaps,  though  not  often 
manifested  in  such  a  strange  and  cruel  way.  ” 

“They  must  be  very  wicked  people,”  responded  Bob. 

“  See  how  they  treated  baby — flung  her  out  of  the  carriage 
as  if  she’d  been  nothin’  but  a  dog!  Aunt  Jane  says  that 
if  she  hadn’t  been  so  wrapped  up  in  flannel  she’d  been 
killed  sure!  There’s  the  mark  on  her  forehead  now.  Such 
a  pret  ty  little  thing,  too,  with  big  black  eyes  jist  like  her 
mother’s.  You  couldn’t  help  lovin’  her  if  you  tried.” 


118  A  WIFE'S  CRIME, 

Dr.  Graham  smiled  kindly  into  the  speaker’s  flushed 
and  earnest  face. 

“They  have  found  a  warm  friend  in  you,  it  seems?” 

“  That  they  have!”  was  the  prompt  response.  “  And  in 
you,  too,  I  hope,  sir.” 

“  I  shall  certainly  do  all  I  can  for  them,”  said  the  doctor, 
a  little  gravely. 

“  And  you  won’t  give  her  up  to  those  bad  men  who  hate 

her  so?” 

“  Assuredly  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to 
protect  her.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  decide  what  is  best 
to  do  under  given  circumstances,”  added  the  doctor,  as  he 
turned  to  the  door.  “The  lady  is  very  ill  now,  being 
threatened  with  a  fever.  The  best  thing  to  do  for  her  now 
is  to  see  that  she  has  the  best  medical  care  and  nursing 
that  are  possible.” 

“  And  I  may  come  to  see  her,  mayn’t  I?” 

“  Certainly,  my  boy.  Come  any  time  you  like.  You 
have  the  best  of  all  rights  to  do  so.  In  all  human  prob¬ 
ability,  you  have  been  instrumental  in  saving  her  life,  as 
well  as  that  of  her  baby.  You  are  a  brave,  honest  boy,  and 
I  am  proud  to  know  you.” 

Dr.  Graham  shook  hands  with  Bob,  as  he  said  this,  whose 
face  flushed  with  almost  as  much  embarrassment  as  pleas¬ 
ure. 

Mr.  Brown  was  present  during  this  interview,  though  in 
accordance  with  his  usual  habit  he  said  nothing,  except  to 
answer  a  few  questions  that  were  asked  him. 

Dr.  Graham’s  words  of  commendation  to  his  nephew  made 
a  strong  impression  on  him,  and  he  was  very  silent  and 
thoughtful  on  their  way  home. 

“Wife  always  said  that  there’s  somethin’ more’n  com¬ 
mon  in  Bob,”  he  mused;  “an’  I  don’t  know  but  what  she’s 
in  the  rights  on’t.” 

Bob’s  thoughts,  though  busy,  were  very  different,  being 
entirely  fixed  on  the  strange  and  delightful  news  he  had  to 
tel!  his  aunt. 

Though  their  way  back  was  down  the  river,  instead  of 
up,  and  the  light  boat  moved  very  swiftly  along  on  its 
smooth,  clear  surface,  it  seemed  to  his  excited  and  impa¬ 
tient  heart  that  they  would  never  reach  the  place  from 
whence  it  started. 

“  How  glad  aunt  will  be  to  know  that  baby’s  mother  is 
found,”  he  said,  as  he  sprung  from  the  boat,  “  and  how 
astonished,  too.  We  never  could  have  believed  that  such 
a  strange  thing  could  have  happened  when  we  left  home  l” 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


119 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  STRUGGLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

When  Mrs.  Graham  returned  to  Geraldine  she  found 
that  quite  a  change  had  come  over  her,  her  cheeks  being 
flushed  and  her  eyes  brilliant  with  the  fever  that  had  be¬ 
gun  to  run  riot  in  her  veins. 

She  had  aroused  to  consciousness  enough  to  take  some 
cognizance  of  her  surroundings ;  but  it  was  all  colored  with 
the  delirious  fantasies  so  common  under  the  circum¬ 
stances. 

Lifting  her  eyes  to  the  sweet,  compassionate  face  that 
bent  over  Her,  she  said : 

“  Oh,  I  know ;  I  have  left  the  world.  You  are  one  of  the 
angels.  I  don’t  suppose  my  husband  cares  to  come — per¬ 
haps  he  will  when  he  knows  how  sorry  I  am;  but  please 
bring  me  my  baby.  It  died  only  a  few  days  ago,  and  will 
be  fretting  for  me.” 

There  was  an  indescribable  pathos  in  these  words,  espe¬ 
cially  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken,  and  there  were 
tears  in  Mrs.  Graham’s  eyes,  as  she  assured  the  poor 
mother  that  her  child  was  in  good  hands,  and  she  should 
see  her  in  the  morning. 

But  when  the  morning  came,  and,  accompanied  by  Bob, 
Mrs.  Brown  had,  in  compliance  with  the  message  that  was 
sent  her,  brought  Isabel  to  Riverview,  the  fever  had  made 
such  rapid  headway  that  she  was  in  no  condition  to  recog¬ 
nize  her  baby,  or  to  make  her  presence  advisable  or  even 
safe  for  either. 

Geraldine  remained  in  this  condition  for  several  days, 
passing  from  a  state  of  such  wild  delirium  as  to  necessi¬ 
tate  constant  watchfulness,  and  even  physical  restraint,  to 
the  dull  stupor  of  exhaustion. 

In  the  former  state  she  raved  incessantly ;  her  wrongs 
and  sufferings,  especially  her  guilt  and  remorse,  were  con¬ 
tinually  upon  her  tongue. 

It  was  a  little  curious,  though  the  doctor  and  his  vrife 
listened  attentively,  anxious  to  obtain  some  clew  to  her 
home  and  family,  that  she  mentioned  no  names. 

Sometimes  the  fear  that  she  had  done  so  would  arise  in 
her  mind. 

“  Have  I  spoken  anybody’s  name?”  she  would  say.  “  I 
must  not.  I  t©ok  a  solemn  oath  kissing  the  cross,  that  I 
would  mention  no  names.” 

And  only  the  repeated  assurance  that  she  had  not  done 
this  would  calm  her  distress  and  excitement. 

The  fever  ran  so  long,  requiring  such  incessant  watchful¬ 
ness  by  night  and  day,  that  Dr.  Graham’s  household  would 
Jiave  been  worn  out  by  the  constant  demands  upon  it,  had 


120 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


it  not  been  for  the  assistance  volunteered  by  Mr,  Smith,  his 
kind-hearted  but  eccentric  patient— if  such  he  could  be 
called,  having  been  convalescent  for  some  weeks. 

He  made  himself  useful  in  a  variety  of  ways,  especially 
in  aiding  the  doctor  to  soothe  and  restrain  Geraldine  in  her 
frenzy,  during  which  she  had  more  than  once  tried  to  fling 
herself  from  the  window. 

He  rarely  spoke,  but  the  touch  of  his  hand  upon  her,  his 
very  presence,  seemed  to  have  a  wonderful  calming  effect 
upon  her. 

During  the  course  of  his  long  practice,  Dr.  Graham  had 
occasionally  met  with  those  possessing  this  power  over  the 
disordered  mind,  always  observing  that  such  generally  had 
peculiarly  strong,  tender,  self-centered  natures,  so  it  pro¬ 
duced  no  other  effect  on  him  than  to  induce  him  to  count 
upon  his  aid,  whenever  needed,  and  to  increase  his  confi¬ 
dence  and  respect. 

“  In  spite  of  Mr.  Smith’s  oddities,  and  they,  certainly,  are 
not  few,”  remarked  Dr.  Graham  to  his  wife,  “  I  can’t  help 
liking  the  man.  I  don’t  think  that  I  ever  had  more  efficient 
help  in  a  sick-room.  He  seems  to  know  just  what  to  do, 
ana  is  so  quiet  about  it,  and  is  never  in  the  way  when  not 
wanted.  And  then  to  think  of  a  man  of  his  apparent 
means  taking  so  much  trouble  for  an  entire  stranger.  It 
can  proceed  from  nothing  but  pure  kindness  of  heart.  Not 
that  any  one  can  help  being  interested  in  our  very  interest¬ 
ing  patient !  I  take  a  deep  interest  in  her  myself ;  and,  if 
you  were  like  some  women  I  know  of,  you  would  be  jeal¬ 
ous.” 

Mrs.  Graham  smiled;  her  faith  in  her  husband  was 
founded  on  a  rock,  and  her  interest  in  the  stranger,  thrown 
so  strangely  upon  their  care  and  protection,  quite  as  strong 
as  his. 

The  two  listened  to  Geraldine’s  incoherent  ravings,  her 
strong  self-accusations,  her  agony  and  remorse,  with 
strange  feelings  at  their  hearts. 

Were  these  the  wild  imaginings  of  a  disordered  mind,  or 
had  they  a  basis  in  fact? 

One  day  Mr.  Smith  stood  by  the  bed,  holding  a  basin  of 
water,  in  which  Mrs.  Graham  was  bathing  the  hot  hands 
and  forehead. 

“  It  is  of  no  use,”  she  said,  holding  up  her  right  hand 
and  surveying  it  with  wild,  glittering  eyes.  “See!  noth¬ 
ing  can  wash  away  the  blood-red  stains  there!” 

In  the  afternoon  Bob  crept  softly  in,  as  he  often  did,  his 
heart  full  of  pity  for  the  pretty  lady,”  who  lay  there  so 
changed  and  wasted,  taking  no  apparent  heed  of  him  or 
any  one. 

fc.  Smith,  who  happened  to  be  the  only  one  that  was 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


121 


present,  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  heavy  curtains  that  fell  around  it. 

Geraldine  was  apparently  lying  in  a  half-doze,  and  the 
boy  stood  looking  at  her  for  some  moments  without  speak¬ 
ing. 

Then  approaching  Mr.  Smith,  he  said : 

“  Do  you  think  she  is  any  better?” 

“  I  do  not  know.  She  is,  certainly,  no  worse.” 

“  Oh!  I  do  hope  she  will  live!  It  will  be  such  a  terrible 
thing  to  have  her  die.” 

“  There  is  nothing  terrible  but  sin,  boy,”  was  the  almost 
stern  response. 

As  if  roused  by  the  sound  of  these  voices,  Geraldine’s 
eyes  flew  open. 

“  Robert!”  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  hand. 

“  She  speaks  your  name;  go  to  her,”  said  Mr.  Smith. 

Gently  pushing  the  boy  forward,  the  speaker  retreated 
toward  the  door. 

He  met  Dr.  Graham  just  outside,  who  gazed  fixedly  at 
him  for  a  moment. 

“  You  are  looking  pale,  and  no  wonder.  You  have  had 
little  or  no  rest  for  some  days.  If  you  don’t  take  better 
care  of  yourself,  I  shall  have  you  on  the  sick  list  next.” 

“It  is  nothing.  I  am  not  very  strong,  as  yet;  it  is 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  I  should  be.  Your  patient  re¬ 
quires  your  immediate  attention.  There  is  a  change  in 
her,  though  of  what  nature  I  cannot  tell.” 

Dr.  Graham  went  immediately  to  Geraldine’s  room, 
where  he  remained  nearly  half  an  hour. 

When  he  returned  he  found  Mr.  Smith  sitting  in  the 
same  position  in  which  he  left  him. 

“  The  fever  has  left  her,”  said  the  doctor,  as  Mr.  Smith 
lifted  his  head  from  the  hands  upon  which  it  was  resting, 
“  and  she  is  sleeping.” 

“  And  the  result?” 

“That  cannot  be  stated  with  any  degree  of  certainty. 
Her  naturally  fine  constitution  is  in  her  favor,  so  that  I 
have  rather  more  hope  than  fear,  still  she  is  very  low. 
If  she  wakens  she  will  live;  if  she  dies,  she  will  never 
wake.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

MR.  SMITH. 

There  was  a  solemn  hush  in  Dr.  Graham’s  household ; 
even  the  servants  moved  about  with  gentle  step  and  sub¬ 
dued  voices,  their  hearts  and  sympathies  with  the  pale, 
pasted  form  that  was  lying  in  that  quiet  chamber,  an4 


122  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

which  might  never  waken  to  the  light  of  an  earthly  morn- 
ing. 

She  lay  in  this  state  for  some  hours ;  the  pulse  only  just 
perceptible,  and  the  breath  coming  so  faintly  from  the 
slightly-parted  lips,  that  sometimes  it  could  hardly  be  seen 
that  she  breathed  at  all. 

Mr.  Smith  came  in,  looking  down  upon  the  still,  white 
face. 

“Is  she  living?”  he  said,  turning  to  Dr.  Graham,  who 
was  standing  beside  him. 

“Yes,  but  the  life  is  very  small.” 

“  Is  there  any  more  hope?” 

“  There  is  no  change  for  the  better  or  the  worse.  Her 
youth  and  constitution  are  on  her  side.  If  she  wakes,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  take  nourishment  and  restoratives,  the  chances 
are  in  her  favor.” 

Had  Geraldine  been  the  only  and  petted  daughter  of  the 
household,  instead  of  a  nameless  stranger,  she  could  hardly 
have  been  watched  with  more  anxious,  devoted,  and 
watchful  care.  But  there  was  little  to  be  done  now,  except 
to  watch  the  scales  that  hung  so  tremblingly  in  the  bal¬ 
ance,  to  see  on  which  side  it  would  turn. 

Mr.  Smith  did  not  go  into  Geraldine’s  room  again,  keep¬ 
ing  his  own  room  much  of  the  time,  which,  aside  from  his 
natural  aversion  to  society,  was  not  strange,  as  he  must 
have  been  not  a  little  worn  and  weary. 

But  he  often  saw  her  from  the  hall,  out  of  which  her  room 
opened,  whose  width  and  windows  scarcely  made  it 
look  like  one,  moving  up  and  down  it  with  the  slow, 
measured  step  peculiar  to  him. 

At  one  of  these  times  the  doctor  accosted  him  with  a 
bright  smile  on  his  face. 

“  Our  patient  has  waked  with  her  mind  perfectly  clear 
and  collected.” 

The  face  that  confronted  the  speaker  was  a  little  more 
colorless  than  usual,  but  there  was  no  other  change  there 
as  he  said : 

“You  think  she  will  recover,  then?” 

“Unless  something  new  sets  in.  She  has  taken  some 
nourishment,  and  her  pulse  is  stronger.  But  come  in  and 
judge  for  yourself.” 

Mr.  Smith  drew  back. 

“  Impossible.  I  leave  on  the  next  train  for  New  York.” 

“  On  the  next  train?”  said  the  doctor,  in  a  tone  of  sur¬ 
prise.  “  Is  not  this  very  sudden  and  unexpected?” 

“  Oh,  no;  I  have  had  it  in  contemplation  for  some  days. 
My  business  is  there,  and  now  that  I  am  fully  recovered,  I 
must  attend  to  it.” 

Dr.  Graham  took  a  careful  survey  of  the  speaker, 


A  WIFE'S  Cm  ME, 


m 


u  But  are  you  fully  recovered?” 

Something  approaching  to  a  smile  brightened  the  grave 
face. 

“  I  am  on  the  road  to  it.  I  have  not  recovered  my  full 
1  strength  yet,  but  that  will  come.  You  have  been  very 
patient  and  forbearing  with  me,  and  I  owe  you  more  than 
money  can  repay.  But  that  must  not  be  forgotten.” 

Dr.  Graham  glanced  at  the  check  that  was  placed  in  his 
hand. 

“I  cannot  conscientiously  take  so  much  as  this,  Mr. 
Smith.  You  have  been  no  more  than  a  boarder  for  the  last 
three  weeks,  besides  being  of  great  service  to  me  in  regard 
to  this  poor  lady.” 

“Pray  oblige  me,  doctor.  I  have  a  large  income,  with 
none  to  share  it,  and  it  is,  really,  your  just  due.  As  for  the 
other  matter  you  refer  to,  it  was  simply  a  matter  of  com¬ 
mon  humanity.  I  apprehend  that  you  expect  no  re¬ 
muneration  from  that  quarter  for  all  your  expense  and 
trouble?” 

“Well,  no;  it  does  not  seem  very  probable.  But  we 
doctors  are  used  to  giving  our  time  and  services.  And, 
then,  this  is  a  peculiar  case,  awakening  more  than  usual 
sympathy  and  interest.” 

“Very  true.  I  feel  this  in  some  degree  myself,  and 
should  be  glad  to  know - ” 

Here  Mr.  Smith  hesitated,  as  if  a  little  doubtful  of  the 
ground  he  was  venturing  upon. 

“Of  course,”  said  Dr.  Graham,  hastily.  “Considering 
all  the  trouble  you  have  taken,  it  is  very  natural  that  you 
should.  Give  me  your  address,  and  I  will  let  you  know 
how  she  gets  along.” 

Mr.  Smith  was  so  long  in  replying  that  the  doctor  raised 
his  eyes  from  the  note-book  that  he  had  taken  from  his 
pocket. 

“  I  will  communicate  with  you,”  said  the  former,  as  he 
met  that  inquiring  look. 

Then  returning  from  the  door  to  which  he  had  abruptly 
turned,  he  added : 

“  I  have  only  time  to  reach  the  station  before  the  train 
leaves.  Present  my  adieus  to  Mrs.  Graham,  together 
with  my  thanks  for  all  her  kindness.” 

“What  a  strange  genius!”  thought  Dr.  Graham  as  he 
looked  after  him.  “  He’s  gone  as  strangely  as  he  came.” 

As  weak  as  an  infant,  it  was  some  days  before  there  was 
any  perceptible  change  in  Geraldine;  but  when  she  began 
to  mend,  she  did  so  with  great  rapidity,  so  that  in  less 
than  three  weeks,  she  was  able  to  leave  her  bed,  though 
she  Poked  like  only  the  shadow  of  her  former  self. 

At  the  early  period  of  her  convalescence  she  had  ex- 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


i24 

pressed  disappointment  and  regret  at  being  brought  back 
to  an  existence  so  full  of  pain  and  sorrow. 

“If  my  baby  had  only  lived!”  she  said.  “But  now 
there  is  nothing.” 

And  finding  that  she  was  likely  to  slip  away  from  life, 
from  the  mere  fact  of  having  nothing  to  attach  herself  to 
it,  Dr.  Graham  decided  to  let  Bob,  who  claimed  this 
privilege,  take  Isabel  in  to  her. 

The  result  of  this  experiment,  which  was  somewhat  risky 
on  account  of  her  weak  state  at  this  time,  was  all  that 
could  be  desired. 

Large  tears  rolled  down  the  pale  cheeks  of  the  poor 
young  mother  as  the  child  was  placed  in  her  arms  that 
she  supposed  had  met  with  so  cruel  a  fate.  But  they 
were  tears  of  joy  and  gratitude,  which  did  much  to  ease 
her  heart  of  its  heavy  weight  of  pain. 

She  asked  no  questions,  seeming  to  think  of  and  care 
for  nothing  save  to  feel  that  it  was  in  her  arms  again. 

Later,  Bob  related  how  and  where  he  found  Isabel,  and 
all  the  circumstances  connected  with  it. 

Shuddering,  Geraldine  held  the  child  more  closely  to  her 
heart  as  she  listened ;  but  she  expressed  no  surprise,  and 
made  no  comments. 

There  were  no  marks  on  the  garments  worn  by  their 
guest  to  indicate  her  name,  but  there  had  been  a  ring  on 
one  of  her  wasted  fingers,  which,  being  too  loose  to  be  worn 
safely,  Mrs.  Graham  took  charge  of,  on  the  inside  of  which 
was  the  name  of  Geraldine. 

Perceiving  that  she  responded  to  this  in  some  degree, 
even  when  most  delirious,  Mrs.  Graham  called  her  by  it, 
her  husband  altering  it  in  time  to  Mrs.  Geraldine,  by  which 
title  she  became  known  to  the  rest  of  the  household. 

Bob  had  become  a  member  of  the  family.  Dr.  Graham 
employing  him  in  the  house  and  garden,  paying  him  regu¬ 
lar  wages. 

The  lad  was  greatly  delighted  at  this  arrangement,  as  it 
not  only  enabled  him  to  see  “  his  baby,”  as  he  always  called 
Isabel,  but  her  mother,  for  whom  he  still  retained  his  boy¬ 
ish  affection  and  admiration. 

Geraldine  was  fully  conscious  of  all  that  she  owed  the 
honest,  warm-hearted  boy,  though  she  showed  it  less  by 
her  words  than  manner. 

It  got  to  be  a  very  common  thing  to  see  the  three  to¬ 
gether,  whenever  Bob  was  at  leisure. 

One  day,  Geraldine  had  been  watching  the  two — Bob  and 
Isabel — who  were  having  a  frolic  upon  the  porch,  by  the 
open  window  of  which  she  was  sitting. 

Entering  the  house.  Bob  placed  the  child,  flushed  and 
laughing,  upon  her  mother’s  knee. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  125 

Geraldine’s  eyes  moistened,  as  she  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

“If  it  were  not  for  you,  Robert,  I  should  have  no  little 
Isabel;  my  heart  and  arms  would  be  empty.” 

The  boy’s  face  flushed  with  pride  and  pleasure. 

“I’m  so  glad  that  I  found  her!  Oh,  Mrs.  Geraldine,  I 
think  that  it  must  have  been  God  that  sent  me  through 
those  dark,  lonesome  woods !  There  was  another  way  that 
I  could  have  gone,  and  which  I  often  take  atf  night.” 

Geraldine  smiled  softly  into  the  clear,  earnest  eyes  that 
were  lifted  to  hers. 

“It  must  have  been  He  that  directed  your  course  up  the 
river.  If  you  had  not  found  me  as  you  did,  baby  would 
have  no  mother.” 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Geraldine  had  made  any  al¬ 
lusion  to  the  dark  tragedy  of  her  past  life ;  and,  as  if  the 
remembrances  it  aroused  were  more  than  she  could  endure, 
hiding  her  face  in  the  clustering  curls  of  the  child  that  was 
clinging  to  her  neck,  she  hastily  left  the  room. 

It  was  a  mild  and  pleasant  evening  in  the  early  spring, 
and  when  Geraldine  returned  she  found  Dr.  Graham  and 
his  wife  seated  on  the  porch  entirely  by  themselves. 

This  was  precisely  what  Geraldine  wanted,  and  she  cer¬ 
tainly  had  no  reason  to  fear  either,  still  the  words  she  felt 
constrained  to  say  were  not  an  easy  thing  to  utter,  and 
there  was  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice,  as  she  said : 

“  My  friends,  you  have  been  very  kind  to  the  friendless 
and  nameless  stranger,  far  kinder  than  I  had  any  right  to 
expect,  but  now  that  health  and  strength  have  returned  to 
me,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  trespass  on  your  hospitality  no 
longer.” 

After  looking  in  her  husband’s  face  for  the  encourage¬ 
ment  that  she  never  failed  to  find  there  for  any  kindness 
she  meditated,  Mrs.  Graham  said : 

“  I  hope  that  nothing  has  been  said  or  done  to  make  you 
feel  that  you  were  burdensome?”  * 

“  On  the  contrary,  you  have  done  everything  that  is 
possible  to  make  my  stay  with  you  pleasant.  You  have 
not  only  been  exceptionally  kind  to  me,  but  have  done  it 
in  the  kindest  possible  way.  But  this  only  makes  it  more 
incumbent  upon  me  to  act  justly  and  kindly  by  you.  I  am 
now  strong  enough  to  earn  my  own  living,  and  ask  you  to 
aid  me  in  my  endeavors  to  do  so.” 

The  husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  for  some  mo¬ 
ments  in  silent  perplexity.  Then  Dr.  Graham  said,  glanc¬ 
ing  a  little  gravely  at  the  soft,  white  hands  of  the  speaker: 

“  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  were  used  to  work.  1  have 
no  wish  to  be  inquisitive  or  to  pry  into  anything  that  you 


m 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


may  wish  to  keep  secret,  but  is  there  no  friend  or  relative 
to  whom  you  have  a  right  to  look?” 

Geraldine  shuddered  at  the  retrospection  occasioned  by 
these  words. 

“No  one. 

“I  know  how  strange  my  conduct  must  seem  to  you,” 
added  Geraldine,  breaking  the  silence  that  followed  ;  “and, 
worse  than  all,  hew  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  say  anything 
tnat  will  make  you  consider  it  in  any  other  light.  You 
have  not  only  the  best  of  all  rights  to  my  fullest  confidence, 
but  it  would  be  an  untold  relief  to  me  to  be  able  to  unbur¬ 
den  to  you  a  heart  so  ladened  with  sin  and  sorrow.  But 
this  may  not  be.  In  regard  to  my  past  life,  my  lips  are 
sealed,  and  ever  must  be.  But  this  I  can  tell  you.  I  have 
only  two  living  relatives  in  the  world,  and  those  two  seek 
my  life,  and  would  have  taken  it  if  something  scarcely  less 
than  a  miracle  had  not  delivered  me  from  them.  I  dread 
nothing  so  much  as  falling  again  into  their  cruel  and  piti¬ 
less  hands.” 

Both  surprise  and  compassion  were  in  Dr.  Graham’s 
eyes  as  he  met  that  terrified,  appealing  look. 

“  My  dear  Mrs.  Geraldine,  you  surely  have  no  reason  to 
fear  them  now?  The  strong  arm  of  the  law  can  he  in¬ 
voked  to  shield  you  from  such  high-handed  measures  as 
these.” 

“  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  have  to  appeal  to  it.  It 
would  give  me  inexpressible  pain  to  be  obliged  to  do  so. 
Such  a  course  would  be  perilous,  and  not  to  me  only ; 
bringing  undeserved  shame  and  sorrow  upon  innocent 
heads. 

“  You  look  surprised,”  continued  Geraldine,  as  she  met 
the  wondering  eyes  of  her  listeners.  “  But  if  all  my  dark 
and  sorrowful  life  could  be  laid  open  before  you — as  it  never 
can  be— you  would  see  that  this  is  the  only  and  best  course 
for  me  to  take.  The  two  persons  I  have  alluded  to  think 
me  dead,  and  my  only  hf>pe  for  peace  and  safety  consists 
in  their  continuing  to  think  so.  It  is  as  though  all  my  past 
life  was  a  blank,  and  I  was  beginning  a  new  one,  which 
had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  old.  The  question  is, 
will  you  help  me  to  live  this  new  life?” 

“  I — we  both— will  help  you  all  we  can,  you  may  be  sure 
of  that,”  said  Dr.  Graham.  “  In  relation  to  earning  your 
own  support,  you  may  be  happier,  under  the  circumstances, 
to  do  so,  as  it  will  give  you  something  to  occupy  your  time 
and  thoughts.  The  next  question  is,  what  can  you  best 
do?” 

‘  ‘  My  education  qualifies  me  to  teach  nearly,  if  not  quite, 
all  the  branches  that  young  ladies  pursue,  buk  I  should 
not  like  to  take  any  position  that  would  separate  me  from 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


127 


Isabel.  On  her  account,  I  should  prefer  that  of  a  nursery- 
governess,  and  would  be  willing  to  take  a  very  low  salary 
if  I  can  have  my  little  girl  with  me.” 

“Do  you  know  of  anybody  needing  any  one  in  that 
capacity,  my  dear?”  said  Dr.  Graham,  turning  to  his  wife. 

“I  can’t  think  of  any  one,  just  now,  but  I  presume  I 
shall.” 

Then,  after  a  little  thought : 

‘  ‘  There  is  Mr.  Smith,  Francis,  why  not  apply  to  him  ?  He 
is  a  man  of  means  and  position,  and  might  know  of  some 
opening  in  that  or  some  other  direction.” 

‘  ‘  Very  true.  And  he  has  seemed  to  take,  in  his  odd  way, 
some  interest  in  our  friend.” 

“  Mr.  Smith  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  about,”  added 
Dr.  Graham,  turning  to  Geraldine.  ‘ k  He  made  himself  very 
serviceable  when  you  were  so  ill  and  delirious.  I  hardly 
know  how  we  should  have  got  along  without  him.  He 
went  away  before  you  were  able  to  take  much  notice  of 
anything,  so  I  suppose  that  you  have  no  recollection  of 
him?” 

“I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  some  one  whose  presence 
seemed  to  give  me  rest  and  peace.  But  it  is  so  vague,  and 
mixed  up  with — with  other  things — that  I  thought— per¬ 
haps,  I  dreamed  it.” 

“  No,  you  didn’t  dream  it.  I  don’t  wonder  that  it  seems 
unreal  to  you,  though,  for  you  were  about  as  wild  and  de¬ 
lirious  a  patient  as  I  ever  had.  Mr.  Smith  could  manage 
you,  though.  How  he  did  it,  I  don’t  know.  He  scarcely 
ever  spoke,  and  then  only  a  word  or  two,  but  you  always 
seemed  calmer  when  he  was  by.  Taking  him  altogether, 
Mr.  Smith  is  a  very  peculiar  man,  one  not  easy  to  fathom. 
But,  with  all  his  oddities,  he  has  a  vein  of  good  sense  and 
good  feeling  that  makes  it  impossible  for  one  not  to  like 
him.  He  wrote  several  times  after  he  left— or,  rather,  his 
secretary  did — to  inquire  after  you.” 

“  How  long  is  it  since  we  have  had  a  letter  from  him?” 
added  the  doctor,  turning  to  his  wife. 

“  Five  or  six  weeks,  I  should  say.” 

“Supposing  you  should  write  him,  my  dear,  stating 
what  Mrs.  Geraldine  desires  to  do,  and  asking  if  he  can  aid 
her  in  any  way?  It  will  do  no  harm.” 

“  So  I  will;  a  letter  shall  go  out  the  very  next  mail.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

GERALDINE’S  FAIRY  GODMOTHER. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  as  good  as  her  word,  her  letter  to  Mr. 
Smith  going  out  in  the  next  mail ;  the  hopefulness  with 
which  she  viewed  this  effort  in  her  behalf  infusing  into 


128 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Geraldine's  heart  a  feeling  of  quiet  and  security  that  she 
had  not  experienced  for  many  a  day. 

If  she  could  only  be  allowed  to  win  her  own  and  her 
child’s  bread  in  peace  and  safety,  no  matter  how  much 
toil  and  hardship  it  might  involve,  how  glad  she  would  be. 

With  this  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind,  Geraldine 
approached  the  steps  of  the  porch  on  which  Bob  was  sit¬ 
ting,  who  looked  up  at  her  with  the  same  glad  and  loving 
smile  with  which  he  always  greeted  her,  though  there  was 
more  than  usual  thoughtfulness  in  his  face  and  tone,  as  he 
said: 

“  I  heard  Dr.  Graham  speak  to  his  wife  a  little  while  ago 
as  if  you  were  goin’  to  get  some  work  to  do  to  support 
yourself  an’  baby.  If  I  was  only  a  man  you  should  not 
work  at  all;  I  would  work  for  you.” 

“  Work  is  far  from  being  the  worst  thing  in  the  world, 
Robert ;  it  is  sometimes  a  great  blessing.  I  only  wish  I  was 
sure  of  getting  it  to  do.” 

Bob  did  not  speak  for  some  minutes,  looking  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

When  he  did  it  was  apparently  on  a  very  different  sub¬ 
ject. 

“When  you  told  me  the  fairy  story  last  evening  you 
said  that  you  shouldn’t  mind  having  a  fairy  godmother 
yourself,  for  a  little  while;  was  it  that  she  might  bring  you 
money?'’ 

Geraldine  was  a  little  touched,  as  well  as  surprised,  at 
the  aptness  with  which  the  boy  read  her  thoughts. 

“Yes.  Not  a  great  deal  though;  just  sufficient  to  get 
baby  and  baby’s  mother  a  modest  outfit  in  case  they  should 
go  among  strangers,  as  they  may  have  to  do.” 

There  was  a  roguish,  exultant  look  in  Bob’s  eyes. 

“  Now,  suppose  1  was  your  fairy  godmother?” 

Geraldine  smiled  as  she  looked  at  the  sturdy  form  that 
was  certainly  not  very  fairy- like  in  its  proportions,  and 
then  looked  very  grave. 

“  And  so  you  have  been,  Robert,  and  in  more  ways  than 
one.” 

“You  know  the  morning  that  I  first  saw  you?” 

“  Indeed  I  do;  it  is  something  that  I  shall  not  soon  for¬ 
get.” 

“Nor  I  nuther.  I  can  see  you  now  standin’  by  the 
fence,  with  baby  in  your  arms.  Did  you  lose  anything?” 

“  Lose  anything?” 

“  Yes.  Did  you  drop  anything  from  your  pocket — any¬ 
thing  like  this?”  added  the  boy,  taking  something  from 
his  own  and  laying  it  in  Geraldine’s  lap. 

Geraldine  looked  down  in  mingled  amazement  apd 
thankfulness  upon  the  lost  porte-monnaie. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


129 


“And  did  you  find  it,  my  dear  boy?” 

“Yes;  I  found  it  in  the  road  when  I  went  back  to  the 
corner  to  meet  those  two  men  on  horseback.  I  thought  it 
was  yours,  so  I  kept  it  for  you.” 

Geraldine  opened  the  porte-monnaie,  finding  there  every 
penny  of  the  coin  and  bills  that  she  had  placed  there  so 
many  weeks  before. 

“  It  could  hardly  come  in  a  better  time,”  she  said. 
“  The  good  doctor  and  his  wife  have  offered  to  supply  all 
my  needs,  but  they  are  far  from  rich,  having  many  out¬ 
goes,  and  I  do  not  like  to  put  them  to  any  further  expense. 
They  have  been  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  expense  for 
me  already. 

“You  have,  indeed,  been  a  fairy  godmother  to  me,” 
added  Geraldine,  stooping  and  kissing  the  boy’s  forehead ; 
“I  hope  the  day  will  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to  be  a 
fairy  godmother  to  you.” 

Geraldine  was  now  very  busy  in  fashioning  garments  for 
herself  and  Isabel,  with  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Graham, 
who  entered,  heart  and  soul,  into  all  that  concerned  her 
protegee ,  making  rapid  progress  in  her  work. 

Riverview  stood  upon  the  edge  of  a  small  village. 

There  was  only  one  mail  from  New  York,  and  that  one 
not  always  on  time. 

“We  can  hardly  expect  a  reply  before  Saturday,”  said 
Mrs.  Graham,  in  response  to  Geraldine’s  query  as  to  when 
she  expected  to  hear  from  her  letter.  “  Mr.  Smith  will  be 
sure  to  reply.  Or,  rather,  his  secretary  will;  he  never 
seems  to  write  letters  himself.” 

Geraldine  had  heard  so  much  about  this  quondam  pa¬ 
tient  and  boarder,  that  she  felt  not  a  little  curious  about 
him. 

“He  was  very  good  to  me,  you  say,”  she  said,  after  a 
litte  pause;  “  I  wish  he  had  stayed  longer,  so  I  could  have 
thanked  him.” 

“  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Mr.  Smith.  I  think  you 
would  have  liked  him,  though  I  hardly  think  that  he  would 
have  cared  for  thanks.  I  have  noticed  that  anything  of 
the  sort  always  seemed  to  displease,  or,  at  least,  make  him 
feel  uncomfortable.” 

“  I  should  like  to  see  him,  anyway,  and  hope  I  shall  some 
time.  He  must  be  a  very  uncommon  character.” 

“So  he  is.  He  isn’t  a  man  easy  to  read.  In  fact,  I 
never  could  quite  understand  him.  But  I  liked  him,  and 
so  does  Francis.  He  is  a  person  that  one  instinctively 
trusts.  He  said  very  little,  but  you  could  not  help  feeling 
that  he  meant  all  he  said.” 

“  He  was  a  patient  of  Dr.  Graham’s?” 

“Yes,  Though  never  ill  enough  to  keep  his  room,  ex? 


130 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


cept  the  first  few  days;  he  looked  very  pale  and  thin  when 
he  first  came.  I  think  that  he  told  Francis  that  he  had 
had  an  accident,  which  had  given  a  severe  shock  to  his 
nervous  system.  He  was  a  good  deal  better  when  he  left, 
but  I  don’t  think  he  was  quite  well  and  strong.” 

“  And  he  wrote  to  inquire  about  me?” 

“Yes,  several  times;  in  fact,  I  think  I  have  his  last 
letter,  if  you  would  like  to  see  it?” 

The  letter  that  Geraldine  took  from  the  speaker’s  hand 
was  very  brief,  running  as  follows : 

“Dear  Doctor, — Many  thanks  for  your  promptness  in 
answering  my  inquiries  concerning  your  patient. 

“  Now  that  she  is  able  to  be  about,  having  recovered  her 
usual  health  and  strength,  or  nearly  so,  I  will  not  trouble 
you  further. 

“  If  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you,  or  any  one, 
I  hope  you  will  not  fail  to  let  me  know.  Yours  truly, 

“  R  B.  Smith, 

“  Per  A.,  Private  Sec.” 

Geraldine  betrayed  more  emotion  as  she  read  this  than 
the  case  seemed  to  warrant. 

“The  handwriting  is  a — a — rather  peculiar,”  she  said, 
studying  it  curiously  for  some  moments,  and  then  putting 
it  away;,  as  though  it  stirred  unpleasant  memories. 

“It  isn’t  Mr.  Smith’s,  you  know,”  said' Mrs.  Graham, 
looking  up  in  some  surprise  at  the  speaker’s  perplexed  face. 
“  It  is  written,  like  all  the  others,  by  his  private  secretary. 
He  came  here  once  or  twice  to  see  his  employer.  But  that 
was  before  you  came.  ”  ’ 

“Did  you  see  him?” 

“  No ;  Francis  did.  He  said  he  had  a  sort  of  foreign  look 
and  way  with  him.” 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  STRANGE  AND  JOYFUL  SURPRISE. 

“I  am  going  down-town,  my  dear.  Have  you  or  Mrs. 
Geraldine  any  commissions  for  me?” 

It  was  Dr.  Graham  who  spoke,  suddenly  making  his  ap¬ 
pearance  upon  the  threshold  of  the  quiet  room  where  the 
two  ladies  were  sitting. 

“I  don’t  know  what  Geraldine  may  have,”  responded 
his  wife,  looking  up  from  her  sewing;  “I  have  nothing, 
except  to  remind  you  not  to  forget  to  go  to  the  post-office. 
The  mail  must  be  in.  ” 

‘  ‘  Something  which  I  believe  I  never  do  forget,  you  have 
such  a  very  extensive  correspondence,  my  love.  Who  are 
you  expecting  to  hear  from  now?” 

“I  plight  hear  from  various  people,”  was  the  demure 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


131 


response.  “  There’s  Brother  Will,  Uncle  James,  and 
Cousin  Lucy,  that  I  haven’t  heard  from  for  an  age,  to  say 
nothing  of  many  others  of  our  numerous  kith  and  kin.  And 
then  there  is — Mr.  Smith.  It  is  over  a  week  since  I  wrote 
him  ;  and  he  is  always  so  punctual.” 

“So  it  is.  I  mailed  it,  myself,  last  Tuesday;  and  it  is 
quite  time,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  that  you  had  an 
answer.  But  then  he  may  be  out  of  town,  or  waiting  to 
make  inquiries  concerning  what  you  wrote  him.” 

Geraldine,  who  was  present,  said  nothing,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  with  a  quiet  intentness  peculiar  to  her, 
and  which  showed  the  subject  they  were  discussing  to  be 
of  no  little  interest  to  her. 

It  was  noticeable  that  she  changed  her  seat  not  long 
after,  taking  one  by  a  window  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  avenue  down  which  Dr.  Graham  rode  on  his  way  to 
town,  and  by  which  she  knew  he  would  return. 

Mrs.  Graham  might  have  guessed  her  motive  for  this, 
for  she  said : 

“  I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  we  heard  from, Mr.  Smith  to-day. 
If  we  don’t,  I  shall  think  that  he  is  waiting,  as  Francis 
says,  for  the  purpose  of  writing  something  definite.” 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  Dr.  Graham  made  his  appear¬ 
ance. 

Taking  several  papers  and  one  letter  from  his  coat 
pocket,  he  tossed  the  latter  into  his  wife’s  lap,  exclaiming: 

“  There  it  is,  my  dear.  ‘Long  looked  for,  come  at  last.’  ” 

The  letter  was  directed  to  Mrs.  Graham,  in  the  same 
angular,  and,  as  Geraldine  had  remarked,  somewhat  pe¬ 
culiar  hand  of  tthe  one  she  had  examined  a  few  days  pre¬ 
viously. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  not  long  in  making  herself  mistress  of 
its  contents,  and  which  seemed  to  give  her  undisguised 
satisfaction. 

“  I  declare,”  she  exclaimed,  a  little  incoherently,  “  if  Mr. 
Smith  isn’t  the  dearest  man  in  the  world !  Such  a  fortu¬ 
nate  thing  that  I  wrote  to  him  1” 

“Dear,  me,”  said  the  doctor,  in  mock  amazement  and 
despair,  “  I  thought  that  I  was  the  dearest  man  in  the 
world !  And  now  it  seems  that  it’s  some  other  man.” 

“And  so  you  are,  in  my  world,”  laughed  his  wife;  “but 
in  Geraldine’s,  if  I  mistake  not,  Mr.  Smith  will  bear  away 
the  palm.” 

“I  am  sure  that  there  couldn’t  be  anything  more  satis¬ 
factory  and  desirable,”  she  added,  turning  to  Geraldine. 
“  Read  the  letter;  it  concerns  you  more  than  any  one,  and 
you  can  judge  for  yourself.  ” 

Geraldine  took  the  letter  that  was  handed  her,  glanced 
at  it,  and  then  returned  it,  saying : 


182 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


“  Will  you  kindly  read  it  to  me?” 

“Certainly.  Francis  would  like  to  hear  it,  too,  I  dare 
say.” 

“  That  I  should,”  responded  the  doctor,  with  a  sly  twinkle 
of  the  eye.  “  I  should  like  to  know  what  the  dearest  man 
in  the  world  has  to  say  for  himself.” 

“  He  hasn’t  anything  to  say  for  himself,”  retorted  Mrs. 
Graham;  “  he  never  does  have.” 

“  Very  true,”  responded  her  husband.  “  Mr.  Smith  has 
as  little  to  say  for  himself  as  any  man  I  ever  saw ;  a  very 
good  thing,  too,  if  it  isn’t  carried  too  far.  Now  for  the  let¬ 
ter,  which  has  seemed  to  make  you  so  happy.” 

“  It  is  for  Geraldine’s  sake,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  glancing 
at  our  heroine.  Observing  the  impatient  and  expectant 
look  there,  she  unfolded  the  letter,  reading  as  follows: 

“  ‘Dear  Madam, — I  should  have  replied  to  your  kind 
favor  earlier  had  I  not  been  out  of  town  for  the  last  few 
days.  I  now  write  to  say  that  I  shall  not  only  be  very 
glad  to  serve  you  in  the  way  you  mention,  but  trust  that 
it  will  open  the  door  for  me  to  be  relieved  in  some  measure 
from  a  responsibility  that  rests  very  heavily  upon  me. 

“‘A  few  months  ago,  by  a  series  of  painful  circum¬ 
stances,  unnecessary,  and  which,  indeed,  I  have  no  right, 
to  reveal,  I  became  the  guardian  of  a  lovely  and  intelligent 
boy  of  about  six,  who  has  been  deprived  of  both  parents. 

“  ‘  While  I  take  the  deepest  possible  interest  in  my  ward, 
there  are  circumstances,  unnecessary,  and  indeed  impos¬ 
sible,  to  explain,  which  place  it  beyond  my  power  to  have 
him  under  my  own  personal  supervision,  as,  otherwise,  I 
would  be  glad  to  do. 

“  ‘  I  have  had  him  boarded  in  a  private  family,  who  have 
attended  carefully  to  his  physical  wants,  trying  to  supply 
his  loss,  so  far  as  they  know  how.  I  have  no  particular 
fault  to  find  with  them. 

“  ‘  Still  it  is  evident  that  the  boy  is  not  happy  there;  the 
poor  little  fellow  pines  after  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was 
strongly  attached.  And  your  letter  has  suggested  to  me 
the  possibility  that  the  lady  of  whom  you  speak  in  such 
high  terms  may  be  able  to  supply  in  some  degree  a  moth¬ 
er  ’s  place  to  him. 

“  ‘Lionel  is  a  boy  that  no  woman,  especially  a  mother, 
can  help  loving - ’  ” 

“Lionel,  did  you  say?”  interrupted  Geraldine. 

Somewhat  startled  at  this  abrupt  and  unexpected  query, 
Mrs.  Graham  examined  the  word  carefully. 

“  Yes,  Lionel.” 

Recollecting  herself,  Geraldine  drew  back  still  further 
into  the  shadow  of  the  corner  where  she  sat. 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


133 


“I  beg  pardon;  go  on,”  she  said,  in  a  tone  husky  with 
suppressed  emotion. 

“  4  Lionel  is  a  boy  that  no  woman,  especially  a  mother, 
can  help  loving,’  ”  resumed  Mrs.  Graham;  “  ‘and  as  your 
young  protegee  has  a  little  girl,  about  the  same  age  of  a 
baby  sister  he  lost,  thus  insuring  him  a  little  playmate,  I  can 
but  hope  that  this  change  will  have  a  most  happy  effect 
upon  the  boy,  who  has  suffered  both  in  health  and  spirits 
from  the  grief  and  loneliness  consequent  upon  his  sad  be¬ 
reavement.’ 

“  Poor  little  fellow!”  interpolated  Mrs.  Graham,  whose 
heart  was  as  warm  and  open  as  the  day,  “  I  wish  he  were 
here  now.  But  just  hear  the  rest. 

“  ‘Being  the  heir  to  a  large  estate,  the  terms  will  be  pro- 
portionably  liberal,  consisting  of  five  hundred  a  year,  ex¬ 
clusive  of  board  for  both  and  all  the  boy’s  incidental  ex¬ 
penses. 

“  ‘  I  hardly  need  add  that  no  menial  labor  will  be  re¬ 
quired  of  her ;  nothing  but  the  love,  care,  and  instruction 
that  she  would  naturally  bestow  upon  her  own  child. 

“  ‘  Should  be  glad  to  have  my  ward  at  Biverview,  at  least 
through  the  warm  weather,  on  account  of  its  pure  air  and 
pleasant  surroundings.  When  cool  weather  comes,  I  will, 
if  found  necessary,  make  other  arrangements. 

“  ‘  I  had  nearly  forgotten  to  say  that  my  ward’s  name  is 
Lionel  Bayard. 

“  ‘  Be  good  enough  to  let  me  hear  from  you  by  return  of 
mail. 

“  *  My  private  secretary  will  take  the  boy  to  Biverview 
as  soon  as  I  learn  that  the  arrangements  named  are  satis¬ 
factory  to  all  parties.  Bespectfully, 

“  ‘B.  B.  Smith, 

“  ‘  Per  A.,  Private  Sec’y.’  ” 

Fortunately  Mrs.  Graham  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her 
own  thoughts  and  feelings  to  notice  with  what  deep  and 
strange  emotions  Geraldine  listened  to  this  letter,  and 
which  were  so  vividly  portrayed  by  the  dilated  eyes  and 
alternately  flushed  and  paling  cheek,  but  which  the  shadow 
in  which  she  sat  failed  to  bring  very  clearly  into  view. 

“  Isn’t  it  delightful  news,  my  dear  Geraldine?”  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  breaking  the  little  pause  that  followed.  “The 
salary  is  liberal,  far  more  so  than  could  be  expected,  and 
the  duties  light — only  one  pupil — and  then  you  can  have 
your  own  dear  little  girl  with  you.  And,  best  of  all  to 
me,  you  will  not  have  to  leave  Biverview.  I  should  be 
very  lonely  if  you  were  to  go,  for  I  am  really  getting  to  be 
very  fond  of  you.” 

This  long  and  characteristic  speech  gave  Geraldine  time 


134 


A  WIFE'S  GRIME . 


to  recover  in  some  degree  from  the  agitation  that  at  first 
threatened  to  be  too  strong  for  her  self-control. 

With  cheek  very  pale  and  eyes  full  of  tears,  she  said, 
tremulously : 

“  God  is  very  good  to  me,  dear  friends — far  better  than 
you  think,  or  I  have  any  right  to  expect  or  ask.  Tell  this 
noble-hearted  man  that  I  accept  the  trust  he  offers  me,  and 
will  do  my  best  to  deserve  it.  In  the  meantime,  if  you  do 
not  need  the  letter  to  answer  it,  will  you  let  me  take  it  to 
my  room,  where  I  can  examine  it  more  carefully?” 

“Certainly.  I  shall  not  need  the  letter,  as  all  I  have  to 
say  in  reply  is  that  the  arrangements  he  proposes  will  be 
very  satisfactory  to  you  and  all  of  us.  That  is  what  you 
wish  me  to  say,  I  suppose?” 

“Yes;  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  no  arrangement  could 
be  so  pleasant  and  desirable.” 

Mrs.  Graham  looked  at  her  husband  as  Geraldine  left  the 
room. 

“  It  can’t  be  wondered  at  that  she  should  be  somewhat 
overcome,  poor  thing!  It  was  quite  a  surprise  to  me — 
something  that  I  didn’t  at  all  expect.  But  did  you  notice, 
Francis,  how  pale  she  was,  and  how  strangely  she  looked? 
It  don’t  seem  to  me  that  she  can  be  quite  well  and  strong 
yet.” 

“  It  is  very  evident  that  she  is  very  far  from  strong,  my 
dear,”  replied  the  doctor,  “nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at. 
People  don’t  get  up  very  soon  from  so  serious  an  illness  as 
hers;  it  is  apt  to  leave  more  or  less  of  weakness  for  some 
months.” 

Geraldine  went  directly  to  her  own  room.  Bolting  the 
door,  she  read  the  letter  that  had  brought  such  unexpected 
and  welcome  tidings  to  her,  line  by  line,  dwelling  with  ma¬ 
ternal  pride  and  fondness  on  all  that  related  to  her  boy. 
For  h  was,  oh,  happy  thought! — her  boy  it  spoke  of. 

Sinking  down  beside  the  bed,  Geraldine’s  grateful  and 
happy  tears  fell  fast. 

“  I  shall  hold  Lionel,  my  poor  lost  boy,  in  my  arms!”  she 
sobbed.  “I  thank  Thee,  O  God,  that  Thou  hast,  in  Thy 
just  wrath,  remembered  mercy!” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  STRANGE  MEETING. 

The  days  that  intervened  before  the  advent  of  her  ex¬ 
pected  guest  at  Riverview  were  very  busy  ones  to  Mrs. 
Graham,  whose  kind,  sympathetic  nature  made  her  bent 
on  making  everything  as  pleasant  as  possible  to  all  con 
cerned. 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  •  135 

Geraldine’s  room  was  in  the  east  wing.  It  contained  two 
other  good-sized  and  pleasant  rooms. 

The  smaller  of  these,  and  which  opened  out  of  Geral¬ 
dine’s,  Mrs.  Graham  had  designed  as  a  bed-room  for  her 
boy-guest,  fitting  it  up  with  everything  that  she  could 
think  of,  that  was  pretty  and  attractive;  the  other  one  was 
to  be  the  school-room. 

Geraldine  was  consulted  in  regard  to  every  detail,  Mrs. 
Graham  following  every  hint  and  suggestion,  so  far  as  it 
was  practicable. 

“It  is  very  easy  to  see  that  you  are  a  mother,”  smiled 
that  lady,  as  Geraldine  suggested  some  addition  that  had 
not  occurred  to  her.  “We  are  very  happy,  Francis  and  I, 
and  I  suppose  my  husband  pets  and  makes  more  of  me 
than  if  he  had  children  upon  which  to  lavish  his  surplus 
affection.  Still  I  must  confess  that  it  is  a  great  disappoint¬ 
ment  to  me  that  I  have  been  debarred  from  this  crowning 
joy  of  wedded  love.  The  house  has  seemed  quite  another 
place  since  your  dear  little  girl  came  into  it.  And  now  I 
am  looking  with  real  pleasure  to  the  coming  of  this  boy!” 

“  You  will  love  him;  you  can’t  help  it,”  said  Geraldine, 
a  little  incautiously. 

Then  catching  Mrs.  Graham’s  surprised  glance,  she 
added,  hastily: 

“That  is  to  say,  if  all  be  true  that  Mr.  Smith  says  of 
him.” 

He  is  at  a  very  interesting  age,  at  all  events,”  responded 
Mrs.  Graham.  ‘  ‘  I  only  hope  he  will  be  contented.  Poor 
little  fellow  !  to  think  of  his  being  deprived  of  both  parents 
so  young.  Isn’t  it  sad?” 

“Very,”  said  Geraldine,  in  tones  that  she  vainly  en¬ 
deavored  to  render  steady. 

“  My  dear  Geraldine,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  as  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  speakei ’s  quivering  lips  and  tearful  eyes. 

“  I  beg  pardon,”  faltered  Geraldine,  “  but  I  am  not  very 
strong,  as  yet.  You  will  understand  something  of  my 
feelings  when  I  tell  you  that  I  lost  a  boy  of  about  the  age 
of  this  one,  and  it  brought  it  all  back  fresh  to  my  mind” 

“I  think  my  boy  must  have  been  a  little  younger  when 
I  lost  him,”  added  Geraldine,  smiling  through  her  tears 
into  the  sympathetic  face  of  her  listener.  “  You,  my  kind, 
good  friend,  who  have  been  denied  a  mother’s  joy,  have 
been  spared  a  mother’s  agony  in  the  loss  of  her  darling.” 

“  But  I  can  feel  for  those  who  have  sustained  it.  And  1 
hope  that  the  boy  that  is  coming  will  take,  in  some  degree 
at  least,  the  place  of  the  boy  you  have  lost.” 

“  I  hope  he  may.  It  predisposes  me,  at  all  events,  to  re 
ceive  him  with  more  tenderness  and  affection,  and  to  take 
more  interest  in  him.” 


A  WIFE  8  CRIME. 


Here  the  Conversation  ceased,  much  to  Geraldine’s  relief. 

This  first  and  brief  allusion  to  her  past  life  was  a  matter 
of  policy — or,  rather,  necessity  with  her.  It  might  tend  to 
explain  not  only  the  agitation  that  she  had  already  mani¬ 
fested,  but  what  it  might  be  impossible  for  her  to  entirely 
repress  at  her  meeting  with  Lionel,  and  which  she  feared 
would  arouse  suspicions  that  would  prove  disastrous  to  all 
her  hopes. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  Lionel  was  ex¬ 
pected,  and  Geraldine  stood  before  the  mirror  in  her  own 
room  looking  with  sad,  inquiring  eyes  into  the  face  from 
which  all  the  bloom  and  brightness  had  vanished,  making 
it  seem  strange  even  to  herself. 

Would  her  boy  recognize  her? 

As  this  was  something  to  be  feared  and  avoided,  she  ex¬ 
perienced  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  and  relief  as  she  noted 
the  change  there. 

Her  long  and  beautiful  hair  had  fallen  out,  so  that  she 
had  been  necessitated  to  wear  a  cap  to  conceal  its  loss, 
which  added  not  a  little  to  her  changed  appearance. 

True,  it  was  coming  out  now,  soft  and  thick,  and  with  a 
natural  wave  in  it  that  added  to  its  beauty;  so  that  when 
Mrs.  Grali  am  surprised  her  without  the  cap,  one  day,  she 
urged  its  discontinuance,  declaring  it  to  be  a  shame  for  her 
to  disfigure  herself  so. 

But  Geraldine  had  her  own  private  reasons  for  declining 

to  do  this. 

I  think  that  I  will  wear  it  for  the  present,”  she  smiled ; 
“at  least  until  my  hair  is  a  little  longer.” 

Her  clear,  soft,  musical  voice;  her  jetty  eyes  with  their 
long  curved  lashes,  were  all  that  remained  unchanged,  and 
these  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  disguise  sufficiently  for  the 
attainment  of  her  purpose. 

For  obvious  re'asons,  Geraldine  decided  that  her  first 
meeting  with  Lionel  should  have  as  few  spectators  as  pos¬ 
sible.  In  order  to  make  this  practicable,  she  resolved  to 
be  in  her  own  room  at  the  time  of  his  arrival. 

The  boy  was  not  expected  until  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  as  it  began  to  wear  away,  there  was  no  necessity  for 
Geraldine  to  feign  the  headache  that  was  to  enable  her  to 
carry  her  design  into  execution. 

There  was  a  dull,  throbbing  pain  in  the  temples,  born  of 
the  heavy  strain  made  upon  her  nervous  system  by  the 
hard  and  unnatural  part  that  she  was  forced  to  act. 

From  the  windows  of  her  own  room  Geraldine  watched 
the  carriage  disappear  down  the  avenue  that  had  been  sent 
to  meet  the  train,  and  then  lying  down  upon  the  lounge, 
endeavored  to  still  the  quivering  nerves  and  throbbing 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  137 

pulses  to  a  successful  encounter  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  must  soon  pass. 

She  had  hardly  done  this,  when  Mrs.  Graham  made  her 
appearance  to  inquire  how  she  was. 

“  It  is  nothing  more  serious  than  a  headache,”  said  Ger¬ 
aldine,  with  a  faint  smile,  “  which  will  be  quite  gone  in  the 
morning.  Pat  has  gone  to  the  station,  I  understand.  I 
wish  that  you  would  send  the  boy  up-stairs  to  me  as  soon 
as  he  returns.” 

“But  won’t  it  be  bad  for  your  head,  my  dear  Geral¬ 
dine?”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  as  she  noticed  the  speaker’s  pale 
face  and  heavy  eyes. 

“  On  the  contrary,  it  will  do  me  good.  Let  him  come  up 
to  me  quietly,  as  though  his  finding  me  here,  in  the  next 
room  to  his  own,  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 
In  this  way  he  may  attach  me,  in  some  degree,  with  the 
mother  he  has  lost,  and  thus  make  it  much  pleasanter  for 
us  both.  There  is  a  good  deal  in  first  impressions,  you 
know.” 

“Very  true.  Children  are  so  unconventional,  that  a 
formal  introduction  might  make  him  feel  shy  and  uncom¬ 
fortable.  I’ll  take  him  up,  myself;  and  after  showing  him 
his  pretty  room  and  telling  him  who  you  are,  leave  him  to 
get  acquainted  himself.” 

Both  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Graham  were  upon  the  porch  when 
Pat  lifted  Lionel  from  the  carriage. 

The  two  were  not  long  in  reaching  his  side. 

The  boy  had  evidently  been  well  brought  up.  He  shock 
hands  with  the  doctor,  submitting  to,  but  not  returning, 
the  kiss  that  his  wife  pressed  upon  each  cheek. 

There  was  a  disappointed,  wistful  look  in  the  dark  eyes 
that  searched  Mrs.  Graham’s  face,  which  gave  her  “  an  odd 
sort  of  feeling,”  as  sbe  expressed  it  afterward. 

“  Are  you  well,  my  dear?” 

“  I’m  pretty  well,  thank  you,  ma’am,”  said  the  boy,  his 
eyes  roving  about  as  though  in  search  of  something  or 
somebody  that  he  could  not  find. 

Holding  Lionel  by  the  hand,  Mrs.  Graham  now  led  him 
into  the  general  sitting-room,  the  boy  giving  every  part  of 
it  the  same  silent,  disappointed  scrutiny. 

“I  thought,  perhaps,  I  should  find  my  mamma  here?” 

Startled  by  these  unexpected  words,  Mrs.  Graham  was 
silent  for  some  moments.  Then  she  said: 

“  Your  mamma  is  dead,  isn’t  she?” 

The  boy’s  eyes  suddenly  dilated. 

“Papa  never  said  she  was;  nobody  ever  said  she  was. 
Is  my  papa  dead,  too?” 

“  Goodness  me !”  thought  Mrs.  Graham,  “  what  a  strange 

child !” 


188 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Then  aloud : 

“Your  dear  papa  and  mamma  are  in  heaven,  and  if  you 
are  a  good  boy,  you  will  go  and  see  them  some  day.  Now, 
if  you’ll  come  with  me,  I  will  show  you  your  pretty  new 
room,  and  the  kind  lady  who  is  going  to  have  the  care  of 

you.” 

The  stopping  of  the  carriage  wheels  that  brought  Lionel 
to  Riverview  came  very  distinctly  to  the  strained  ears 
that  were  watching  for  them. 

Rising  from  the  lounge,  Geraldine  went  to  the  mirror, 
carefully  adjusting  her  cap  over  the  short,  wavy  hair  that 
covered  her  head. 

As  she  stood  thus,  looking  at  the  reflection  there,  as 
though  it  were  some  other  face  than  hers,  she  heard  steps 
ascending  thestairs. 

Her  heart  beat  almost  to  suffocation  as  there  floated  to 
her  ear  the  clear,  childish  voice  so  familiar  to  her,  in  which 
there  was  a  minor  key,  never  heard  in  it  before,  and  which 
went  straight  to  the  mother’s  heart. 

As  the  steps  came  nearer  and  nearer,  an  almost  irresist¬ 
ible  impulse  came  over  Geraldine  to  rush  forward  and 
clasp  her  boy  to  her  heart. 

Controlling  herself  with  a  strong  effort,  she  drew  a  shawl 
around  her  shoulders,  seating  herself  in  a  large  easy -chair 
in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room. 

There  were  two  doors  to  Lionel’s  room,  one  opening  into 
Geraldine’s,  the  other  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Graham  took  the  boy  through  the  latter  into  the 
pretty  chamber,  that  looked  very  dainty  and  attractive  in 
its  drapery  of  white,  relieved  only  by  the  tinted  walls  of  a 
pale  pink,  and  the  rose-colored  ribbons  that  knotted  back 
the  muslin  curtains  from  the  broad,  deep  windows. 

Lionel’s  eyes  wandered  around  with  the  same  searching, 
wistful  look,  saying,  almost  immediately. 

“  Where  is  the  lady  you  told  me  about?” 

Opening  the  door  into  Geraldine’s  room,  Mrs.  Graham 
pointed  to  its  motionless  and  silent  occupant,  whose  only 
safety  consisted  in  the  self-control  that  taxed  her  strength 
to  the  utmost,  saying: 

“There  she  is.  She  once  had  a  little  boy,  just  about 
your  age,  and  was  so  sorry  to  lose  him.  Wouldn’t  it  be 
very  nice  if  you  could  take  his  place?” 

Lionel  drew  back  from  the  hand  that  gently  pushed  him 
forward. 

“But  if  she  isn’t  my  own  mamma  how  could  I?  I 
couldn’t  love  anybody  as  I  did  her.” 

“  Well,  go  and  speak  to  her,  dear,  while  I  go  down  and 
get  your  supper  ready.” 

The  door  closed  after  the  retreating  form  of  the  speaker, 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


139 


and  through  eyes  misty  with  tears  Geraldine  looked  out 
from  her  obscure  corner  upon  the  little  term  that  was 
framed  so  distinctly  in  the  doorway  upon  whose  threshold 
the  feet  still  lingered. 

“Lionel.” 

“Mamma!”  cried  the  boy,  darting  forward. 

Then,  looking  into  the  face  so  changed  from  the  one 
that  had  smiled  down  upon  him  last,  he  suddenly  stopped 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Reaching  out  her  hand.  Geraldine  drew  the  boy  toward 
her  so  that  his  head  rested  against  her  knee. 

“  Did  you  think  that  it  was  your  own  mamma  speaking 
to  you,  my  dear  boy?”  she  said,  laying  her  hand  softly  on 
his  head. 

“Yes;  you  speak  just  as  she  used  to.” 

“  Does  my  face  look  any  like  hers!” 

Lifting  his  head  Lionel  again  scanned  the  face  that  bent 
over  him,  a  disappointed  look  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he 
did  so. 

“You  make  me  think  of  her,  somehow,  but  you  don’t 
look  like  her.  My  mamma  didn’t  wear  a  cap.  Her  eyes 
were  bright  and  her  cheeks  red,  and  she  had  dimples 
around  her  mouth  when  she  smiled.  And  she  always 
smiled  when  she  spoke  to  me.  My  mamma  was  pretty,  so 
pretty !” 

“  When  did  you  see  her  last?” 

“  It’s  a  long  time;  a  good  many  weeks  and  months.  It 
was  one  evening.  I  said  my  prayers  at  her  knee,  just  as  I 
always  did.  She  didn’t  say  anything  to  me  about  going 
away,  or  bid  me  good-bye  either,  but  in  the  morning  she 
was  gone.  When  I  cried  and  asked  papa  where  she  was, 
he  looked  so  white  and  angry,  and  said  I  mustn’t  never 
speak  her  name  to  him  again.  And  when  I  kept  talking 
about  her,  ’cause  I  couldn’t  help  it,  he  shook  me  real  hard. 
Then  he  seemed  sort  of  sorry,  and  kissed  and  cried  over 
me,  saying  that  I  was  a  poor  little  motherless  boy.  Alter 
breakfast  Rattle  took  me  away  in  a  carriage.  Rapa  said 
that  he  would  come  and  see  me  in  a  few  days,  but  he  never 
come.” 

Geraldine  could  not  restrain  her  tears  at  this  artless  re¬ 
cital,  a  big  drop  falling  upon  the  little  hand  that  she  held 
in  both  of  hers. 

This  seemed  to  trouble  the  sensitive,  affectionate-hearted 
boy. 

“What  makes  you  cry?” 

Making  a  successful  effort  to  restrain  her  emotion,  Ger¬ 
aldine  smiled  through  her  tears  upon  the  little  questioner. 

“  Because  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  dear  child.  And  then 
I  had  a  little  boy  once,  and  you  make  me  think  of  him. 


140 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


Don’t  you  think  that  you  can  learn  to  love  me  after  a 
time,  so  that  I  shall  not  miss  him  so  much?” 

Lionel  threw  his  arms  around  the  speaker’s  neck. 

“I  love  you  now!  Only  you  won’t  mind  if  I  love  my 
own  mamma  the  best?” 

For  the  first  time  since  their  long  separation  Geraldine 
held  her  boy  warmly  and  closely  to  her  heart. 

“No,  Lionel,  I  shall  always  want  you  to  love  your  own 
mamma  the  best.” 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MR.  SMITH'S  SECRETARY. 

When  Mrs.  Graham  went  down  stairs  she  found  her  hus¬ 
band  sitting  out  on  the  porch,  a  favorite  place  writh  him  at 
that  time  of  day,  in  an  unusually  thoughtful  mood. 

“  What  a  pretty  boy  it  is,  don’t  you  think  so,  Francis?” 

“Yes.” 

‘  ‘  Such  black  eyes  I  never  saw  in  anybody’s  head.  ” 

“  Except  Mrs.  Geraldine’s,  her  eyes  are  quite  as  black.” 

“So  they  are,  I’ve  often  remarked  it.  She  told  me  yes¬ 
terday  that  she  had  lost  a  little  boy  about  Lionel’s  age.” 

“Well,  he  couldn’t  have  looked  much  more  like  her  than 
this  one  does.” 

“  Goodness  me!  Francis,  what  do  you  mean?” 

Dr.  Graham  laughed  outright  at  the  open-eyed  wonder 
in  the  face  that  was  turned  toward  him. 

“  Nothing  at  all,  my  dear,  except  that  it  is  a  remarkable 
coincidence  to  which  I  casually  drew  your  attention.  We, 
occasionally,  see  in  two  strangers  a  strong  resemblance, 
while  those  near  akin  are  totally  dissimilar.  So  I  place  no 
particular  stress  upon  that. 

“Still,”  continued  the  doctor,  after  a  thoughtful  pause, 
“  I  hate  mysteries ;  and  must  say  that  I  wish  that  we  knew 
something  of  the  antecedents  of  the  lady  who  is  domiciled 
beneath  our  roof,  and  of  whom  we  know  no  more  than  if 
she  had  dropped  down  from  the  skies.” 

“  Perhaps  she  did,”  smiled  Mrs.  Graham;  “  people  some¬ 
times  entertain  angels  unawares,  you  know?” 

Then,  sobering  a  little  as  she  met  her  husband’s  grave 
look,  she  added: 

“  Do  you  say  this,  in  view  of  the  responsibility  we  have 
assumed  in  relation  to  Mr.  Smith’s  ward  ?” 

“No.  1  don’t  acknowledge  that  we  have  assumed  any 
responsibility  in  regard  to  him.  Mr.  Smith  knows  all  we 
know  in  relation  to  Geraldine,  being  here  when  she  name; 
and  if  he  chooses  to  place  this  confidence  in  her— 1  ao  not 
say  it  is  misplaced — the  responsibility  is  his,  not  oilrs.” 
Mrs.  Graham  had  the  firmest  confidence  in  her  husband’s 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


141 


judgment  and  integrity,  having  seen  it  tested  in  many 
ways,  and  a  strange  fear  arose  in  her  heart,  that  she 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  put  into  words,  if  she  had 
tried. 

“  My  dear  Francis,  you  speak  so  differently  in  regard  to 
Geraldine  than  I  ever  knew  you  to  do  before.  Have  you 
1  seen  anything  in  her  of  late  that  makes  you  distrust  her?” 

Dr.  Graham  smiled  reassuringly  into  the  troubled  face 
of  the  speaker. 

“  On  the  contrary,  I  see  things  in  her  every  day  that 
make  me  esteem  her  more  highly.  Still,  as  I  said  before, 
I  hate  mysteries.  And  now  let  us  drop  the  subject.” 

“  I  thought  that  Mr.  Smith’s  secretary  was  coming  with 
the  boy.” 

44  So  he  did,  as  far  as  the  village,”  responded  the  doctor. 
“  He  told  Pat  that,  as  he  had  some  business  to  do  there,  he 
should  remain  overnight  at  the  hotel,  coming  up  to  see 
the  boy  early  in  the  morning,  before  the  train  leaves.” 

Bob  was  sitting  in  his  favorite  seat  on  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  with  little  Isabel  on  his  knee,  whose  merry  prattle 
was  the  sweetest  of  all  music  to  him. 

“I  wish  that  you  would  take  baby  up  to  her  mother, 
Bob,”  said  Mrs.  Graham.  “  I  think  that  I  will  let  her  and 
Lionel  have  their  supper  together,  so  that  they  will  get  ac¬ 
quainted.  Tell  Mrs.  Geraldine  that  I  will  send  Katy  up 
with  it  directly.” 

When  Bob  entered  Geraldine’s  room,  which  he  did  in 
response  to  the  summons  that  followed  his  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  he  gazed  in  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  lovely 
boy  that  was  seated  on  a  cushion  at  her  feet,  with  his  head 
resting  against  her  knee. 

He  had  Isabel  in  his  arms,  who  looked  a  little  askance 
at  this  new  claimant  for  her  mother’s  love. 

Smiling  upon  both,  Geraldine  held  out  her  arms  to  the 
child,  who,  after  a  little  hesitation,  sprung  eagerly  into  them. 

*k  Lionel,”  said  the  happy  mother,  “  you  have  been  telling 
me  about  your  own  dear  little  sister,  and  how  much  you 
loved  her.  My  baby  must  be  several  months  older,  but  she 
has  the  same  name,  and  I  hope  you  will  learn  to  love  her, 
after  a  time,  almost  as  well.” 

Isabel  had  altered  so  much  during  the  months  that  had 
followed  their  separation,  that  no  thought  entered  the  boy’s 
mind  of  her  true  relationship  to  him. 

All  that  he  saw  was  a  sweet,  dimpled  face,  eyes  that 
looked  gleefully  into  his,  rosy  lips  held  up  for  the  kias  that 
he  was  nothing  loath  to  give. 

Katy  now  entered  with  the  nicely  arranged  and  appetiz¬ 
ing  supper,  which  consisted  of  bread  and  milk  for  Isabel, 


142 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


to  which  were  added  some  delicious  rice  cakes,  honey,  and 
some  early  strawberries. 

It  was  hard  to  say  which  enjoyed  it  the  most,  the  chil¬ 
dren  or  she  who  sat  watching  them  with  such  a  happy,  de¬ 
lighted  look  upon  her  face,  that  Mrs.  Graham  hardly  rec¬ 
ognized  it  when  she  entered  the  room,  as  she  did,  a  few 
minutes  later,  to  see  if  there  was  anything  further  that 
she  could  do  for  the  comfort  of  any  of  them. 

So  strong  was  the  constraint  that  Geraldine  was  obliged 
to  put  upon  her  feelings,  that  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her  to 
find  herself  alone  with  these  dear  children,  so  strangely 
separated,  and  still  more  strangely  brought  together,  now 
sleeping  quietly  in  the  same  room,  under  her  loving  and 
watchful  care. 

Though  they  both  inherited  their  mother’s  jetty  hair  and 
eyes,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  their  father’s  looks  in  them, 
especially  in  Isabel. 

Considering  the  charge  that  had  been  brought  against 
her,  it  will  not  be  wondered  at  that  Geraldine  viewed  this 
with  no  little  satisfaction. 

It  brought  vividly  to  her  mind  the  husband,  the  memory 
of  whose  love  and  manly  worth  grew  more  precious  to,  her 
day  by  day,  and  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears  as  she  gazed. 

“  If  he  could  look  upon  his  baby  now,”  she  thought,  “  he 
would  know,  however  foolish  and  faulty  my  conduct,  that 
I  was  guilty  of  doing  him  no  other  wrong.  I  will  atone  for 
my  great  sin  by  devoting  my  life  to  his  children,  and  it 
may  be  that  he  will  some  day  come  to  me,  as  he  did  in  my 
dream,  and  putting  my  baby  in  my  arms,  kiss  us  both, 
though  it  be  in  another  and  a  fairer  country  than  this.” 

Mr.  Smith’s  secretary  kept  his  word,  coming  to  Kiver- 
view  the  following  morning  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
Lionel  and  learning  in  regard  to  his  welfare. 

Despite  her  changed  appearance,  Geraldine  felt  reluctant 
to  meet  strangers,  especially  from  New  York,  lest  it  should 
be  some  one  who  would  recognize  her. 

“I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  meet  him,  sooner  or  later,”  she 
thought,  “  but  I  will  put  it  off  as  long  as  possible.” 

So,  on  the  plea  of  not  having  fully  recovered  from  the 
headache  of  the  preceding  day,  she  remained  in  her  own 
room  until  after  he  had  left. 

Lionel  saw  him,  and  came  running  back  to  Geraldine  as 
soon  as  he  had  gone,  his  animated  look  and  manner  show¬ 
ing  that  the  parting  was  not  the  occasion  of  any  heart¬ 
break. 

“Were  you  sorry  to  have  him  go?”  inquired  Geraldine. 

“No,”  was  the  frank  response,  “I  wasn’t  sorry,  as  I 
know  of.  He  asked  me,  Mr.  Tjny  did,  what  he  should  tell 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


143 


my  guardian,  and  I  said  that  he  was  to  tell  him  that  I  liked 
you  and  my  new  home  ever  so  much.’ 

“  I  am  glad  that  you  were  able  to  send  him  such  good 
news, ”  smiled  Geraldine.  ‘ ‘  I  suppose  your  guardian  comes 
to  see  you  quite  often.  ” 

“  He  never  comes.'’ 

“Never  comes  to  see  you!”  repeated  Geraldine,  in  as¬ 
tonishment. 

“  He  came  one  night,  a  long  time  ago,  after  I  had  gone 
to  sleep.  He  came  up-stairs  to  look  at  me— so  Mrs.  Roper 
said— but  I  didn’t  see  him.  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life.” 

Geraldine  was  too  prudent  to  let  Lionel  see  the  lull  extent 
of  her  wonderment  at  such  strange  conduct,  especially  in 
the  guardian  of  a  child  of  such  tender  years. 

“  Your  guardian  is  very  busy,  I  dare  say.  He  has  been 
out  of  health,  too,  I  understand.  I  suppose  that  he  used 
to  write  often  to  ask  how  you  were  getting  along?” 

“Oh,  yes;  Mrs.  Roper  got  lots  of  letters.  She  used  to 
read  some  of  them  to  me,  sometimes,  how  I  must  be  a 
good  boy,  and  let  him  know  if  I  wanted  anything  He 
used  to  send  me  lots  of  toys  and  pretty  things  when  Mr. 
Tony  came,  and  I  was  to  be  sure  and  let  him  know  if 
I  wanted  anything  else.  I  told  Mr.  Tony  to  tell  my  guard¬ 
ian  that  I  wanted  to  go  to  my  own  home  and  see  my 
mamma,  and  papa,  and  little  sister.” 

“And  what  did  Mr.  Tony  say  to  that?”  inquired  Geral¬ 
dine,  as  soon  as  her  emotion  would  allow  her  to  speak. 

“  He  looked  very  sober,  but  didn’t  say  much,  only  that 
he  would  tell  Mr.  Smith  what  I  said.  The  next  time  my 
guardian  wrote,  he  said  that  he  was  going  to  put  me  in  the 
care  of  a  kind  lady,  who  would  love  me  just  as  though  I 
was  her  own  little  boy.  So  when  Mr.  Tony  came  for  me, 
I  thought,  perhaps,  that  it  was  my  mamma  he  was  taking 
me  to.” 

“You  were  greatly  disappointed  when  you  saw  me?” 

The  boy’s  ear,  quickened  by  affection,  caught  the  under¬ 
tone  of  pain  in  these  words. 

Throwing  his  arms  around  Geraldine’s  neck,  he  cried: 

“Yes;  but  I  don’t  mind  it  so  much  now.  You  seem 
more  and  more  like  my  own  mamma  all  the  time.  And  I 
love  you,  oh,  so  dearly.” 

There  was  one  thing  that  puzzled  Geraldine.  Mr. 
Smith’s  secretary  had  countersigned  his  letters  by  the 
initial  letter  “  A,”  which  certainly  did  not  stand  for  the 
name  that  Lionel  gave  him.  Still,  it  might  stand  for  his 
Christian  name. 

“  Has  Mr.  Tony  any  other  name  than  the  one  you  call 
him  by?”  she  said  to  Lionel,  after  turning  the  matter  over 

in  her"  mind.  — 


144 


A  WIPE'S  CUXME. 


“Mrs.  Roper  called  him  by  some  other  name,  I  forget 
what.  It  was  too  hard  for  me  to  speak,  so  he  said,  and 
that  I  was  to  call  him  Mr.  Tony.  I  asked  him  once  if  that 
was  his  real  name,  and  he  laughed  and  said,  ‘  yes.’  ” 

*  *  *  *  $  a(e  •" 

Mr.  Smith  was  in  his  library,  being  seated  at  a  desk  on 
which  were  various  letters  and  papers  demanding  his  im¬ 
mediate  attention,  but  to  which  he  paid  no  heed,  being  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  thought,  which  the  gloom  that  rested  upon  his 
brow  showed  to  be  of  no  very  pleasant  nature. 

Suddenly  arousing  himself,  he  glanced  at  his  watch. 

“  The  train  was  in  an  hour  ago.  I  wonder  what  keeps 
him,”  he  muttered.  “  They  have  met  by  this  time.  What 
will  the  result  be?  But  why  should  I  ask  the  question? 
The  result  will  be  what  I  expected.  By  this  time  he  has 
forgotten  everything.  He  will  not  come  before  to-morrow, 
and  then  to  tell  me— what?” 

As  though  the  suspense  he  was  evidently  suffering  was 
too  intolerable  to  be  borne,  the  speaker  partially  arose 
from  his  chair. 

Then  sinking  back  in  it  he  turned  his  eves  resolutely 
upon  the  papers  before  him,  one  of  which  he  began  to  read, 
though  with  an  abstracted  air,  as  though  his  mind  took  in 
no  sense  of  its  meaning. 

A  moment  later  ana  his  privacy  was  invaded  by  his 
secretary,  who,  entering  by  a  side  door  near  the  desk,  now 
stood  before  his  employer  with  a  quiet,  deferential  air. 

Mr.  Smith  cast  a  quick,  searching  glance  upon  the  face, 
evidently  both  baffled  and  surprised  by  the  tranquil  look  it 
wore. 

“Well,  sir?” 

The  person  addressed  might  have  thought  the  speaker  to 
be  displeased  at  his  coming  unsummoned  into  his  presence, 
for  he  said : 

“I  understood  you  to  say  that  you  wished  to  see  me 
immediately  on  my  return?” 

“You  are  right.  I  did  say  so.  What  news  do  you 
bring?” 

“  Well,  sir,  I  followed  your  instructions  in  regard  to 
your  ward,  taking  him  from  Mrs.  Roper’s  to  Riverview.  I 
saw  him  this  morning  for  a  few  minutes,  before  the  train 
left,  and  he  seemed  quite  happy  and  animated,  more  as  a 
boy  of  his  age  should  be  than  I  ever  saw  him.  He  said  I 
was  to  tell  you  that  he  liked  his  new  governess  very  much ; 
that  she  seemed  like  his  own  mamma.” 

“  How  did  you  like  her?” 

“Iam  sorry  to  say  that  I  didn’t  see  her.  On  account  of 
my  long  illness  there,  I  had  some  matters  to  arrange  in 
that  vicinity,  so  I  remained  at  the  village  hotel  over  night. 


A  WIFE'S  CHIME. 


145 


When  I  called  at  Riverview  the  next  morning,  I  inquired 
for  her  especially,  but  Mrs.  Graham  informed  me  that  she 
was  suffering  from  a  nervous  headache,  and  had  not  left 
her  room.” 

“No  matter;  it  is  my  intention  to  have  you  visit  my 
ward  every  month,  so  you  will  soon  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  her.  I  shall  make  it  a  point  that  you  do  see  her  on 
your  next  visit.” 

The  secretary  bowed,  saying  a  few  minutes  later,  his  face 
flushing  a  little  as  he  spoke: 

“  I  found  the  good  farmer  and  his  wife  who  nursed  and 
cared  for  me  so  kindly,  they  having  moved  from  their 
former  place,  being  now  not  far  from  Riverview.  But  when 
I  would  have  recompensed  them  for  their  trouble,  I  found 
that  you  had  forestalled  me.” 

“You  were  correctly  informed,”  said  the  other,  a  little 
coldly.  “  You  have  been  of  service  to  me  in  various  ways, 
and  then  those  in  the  circumstances  of  these  people  can  ill 
afford  to  wait.  Take  these  letters  and  see  that  the  replies 
to  them  go  out  in  the  next  mail.” 

The  concluding  sentence  making  it  appear  evident  that 
his  presence  was  no  longer  desired,  the  secretary  gathered 
up  the  letters,  retreating  to  a  little  side  room  which  had 
been  fitted  up  for  his  especial  use. 

It  was  here  that  he  spent  the  larger  part  of  the  hours 
devoted  to  business;  a  small  bell  suspended  just  above  his 
desk,  and  which  communicated  with  the  one  in  the  adjoin¬ 
ing  room,  summoning  him  into  the  presence  of  his  chief, 
whenever  he  desired  to  see  him. 

“  What  a  singular  being,”  thought  the  secretary,  as  he 
seated  himself  at  the  desk.  “  Why  he  should  have  sought 
me  out  as  he  did,  dealing  with  me  so  liberally,  is  one  of 
the  mysteries  that  I  cannot  fathom.  True,  I  am  of  some 
service  to  him,  but  no  more  than  any  one  else  would  be  in 
the  same  position.  It  can’t  be  from  any  personal  affection, 
for  he  has  shown  none;  keeping  me  at  the  same  distance 
that  he  maintained  at  the  first,  and  which  no  effort  of 
mine  can  bridge  over.  And  now  see  what  he  has  paid  out 
for  me,  twice  what  I  should  have  paid,  at  the  most.  Well, 
it  is  his  business;  he’s  rich  and  can  afford  it.” 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 

Under  the  new  order  of  things,  inaugurated  by  the  late 
addition  to  their  number,  the  household  at  Riverview 
moved  quietly  and  happily  along. 

Happy  in  the  presence  and  companionship  of  her  two 
dear  children,  something  of  the  olden  bloom  and  bright- 


146 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


ness  came  back  to  Geraldine’s  face,  and  though  nothing 
approaching  to  merriment  ever  dimpled  her  mouth,  a 
smile  often  lingered  there  more  sweet  and  gracious  than 
ever  rested  there  in  her  palmiest  days. 

Only  one  thing  cast  a  shadow  on  the  new-born  joys  that 
were  springing  around  her,  the  memory  of  the  sin  that 
had  borne  such  bitter  fruit,  and  which  rested  all  the  more 
heavily  on  her  heart  that  she  could  speak  of  it  to  no  one. 

Many  times  did  she  rise  softly  from  her  couch,  and,  after 
gazing  on  the  sleeping  babe,  the  living  image  of  its  father, 
sink  down  upon  her  knees,  and,  holding  the  crucifix  to  her 
lips,  plead  with  Him  who  hung  thereon  to  give  her  soul 
pardon  and  peace. 

At  her  own  request,  Geraldine  had  two  to  teach  instead 
of  one,  her  second  pupil  being  good,  kind,  honest  Bob, 
who,  to  use  his  Uncle  John’s  expression,  “would  rather 
have  a  book  than  his  dinner,  any  day.” 

Geraldine  was  not  ignorant  of  the  boy’s  love  for  what  his 
uncle  called  “lamin’,”  nor  yet  the  sacrifice  that  he’was  will¬ 
ing  to  make  for  the  sake  of  providing  a  home  for  her  baby- 
girl,  and  s  he  was  -  determined  that  he  should  have  tne 
education  for  which  he  so  thirsted,  and  of  which  she  was 
confident  that  he  would  make  a  worthy  use. 

So  she  made  arrangements  with  Dr.  Graham,  who  en¬ 
tered  heartily  into  her  plans,  to  have  Bob  work  around 
sufficient  for  his  board,  spending  the  rest  of  the  time  in 
study. 

A  happier  boy  the  sun  never  shone  upon  when  Geral¬ 
dine  unfolded  to  Bob  this  arrangement,  taking  him  into 
the  school-room  for  this  purpose,  which  had  been  fitted  up 
with  books,  maps,  charts,  and  everything  that  could  make 
study  pleasant  and  profitable. 

“It  is  high  time  that  I  should  begin  to  be  your  fairy 
godmother,”  smiled  Geraldine,  as  she  observed  the  boy’s 
astonishment  and  grateful  joy,  and  which  had  temporarily 
deprived  him  of  the  power  of  speech. 

Then  putting  Isabel  into  his  arms, she  added: 

“You  were  very  good  to  baby  and  her  poor  mother, 
when  they  were  friendless  wanderers,  having  neither 
friends  nor  shelter,  and  both  baby  and  her  mother  must  now 
be  as  good  as  they  can  be  to  you.  I  mean,  my  dear  boy, 
that  you  shall  have  as  good  an  education  as  you  will  re¬ 
ceive;  so  everything  depends  upon  yourself,  you  see.” 

Mrs.  Brown  was  delighted  at  the  brightening  prospects 
of  her  nephew,  and  as  for  her  husband,  the  capabilities 
that  the  boy  evinced,  no  less  than  the  estimation  in  which 
he  was  held  by  his  new  friends,  had  caused  quite  a  revolu¬ 
tion  in  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  saying  to  Geraldine,  as 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  147 

he  rather  awkwardly  expressed  his  acquiescence  in  this 
arrangement  for  his  benefit : 

“  I  never  was  much  of  a  scholard  myself,  but  Bob  allers 
took  as  naterly  to  books  as  a  duck  takes  to  water.  Wife 
allers  said  that  there  was  sometiiin’  more'n  common  in  the 
lad,  an’  I  do’  know  but  what  she’s  in  the  rights  on’t.” 

So  this  important  matter  was  settled  to  the  mutual  satis¬ 
faction  of  all  concerned. 

As  Mr.  Brown  supplied  River  view  with  eggs,  poultry, 
fruit,  etc.,  he  saw  his  nephew  every  week,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  frequent  Sundays  that  Bob  spent  at  his  old  home. 

Mrs.  Bro  wn  occasionally  accompanied  her  husband  in  his 
trips  to  Riverview,  spending  the  day  there;  Bob  going  back 
with  her  in  the  evening,  if  the  weather  was  fine,  being  ac¬ 
companied  by  Lionel,  who,  boy-like,  was  delighted  to  get 
on  the  water . 

These  were  very  enjoyable  seasons,  not  only  to  Bob.  but 
to  Lionel  and  Isabel,  who  grew  to  be  very  fond  ot  “Auntie 
Brown,”  as  fhey  called  her. 

In  accordance  with  the  wish  that  Mr.  Smirli  had  ex¬ 
pressed  through  his  secretary,  Geraldine  wrote  him  every 
week  in  regard  to  the  health  and  general  welfare  of  his 
ward. 

Her  knowledge  of  his  peculiarities,  together  with  her 
fears  of  betraying  too  much  interest  in  her  pupil,  placed 
her  under  considerable  constraint  at  first. 

But  this  gradually  wore  away,  until,  at  last,  she  began  to 
take  absolute  pleasure  in  describing  the  marked  improve¬ 
ment  and  growing  graces  of  her  boy,  and  who  was  all  the 
more  dear  to  her  that  no  one  recognized  her  right  to  call 
him  such. 

On  one  occasion  she  wrote,  “  that  hearing  her  little  girl 
call  her  ‘mamma,’  Lionel  was  beginning  to  give  her  the 
same  title.  Sometimes  it  was  ‘  my  new  mamma,’  as  though 
to  make  a  distinction  between  her  and  the  one  he  had  lost. 
That,  as  it  seemed  to  afford  his  ward  no  little  satisfaction, 
she  had  encouraged  the  boy  to  do  this,  hoping  that  it  would 
not  be  displeasing  to  him.” 

Mr.  Smith  briefly  alluded  to  this  in  his  next  letter,  ex 
pressing  his  gratification  “  that  his  ward  regarded  her  in 
this  light.” 

Mr.  Smith  had  intimated  that  his  secretary  would  visit 
Riverview  every  month,  to  inquire  personally  in  regard  to 
the  welfare  of  his  ward ;  but  more  than  two  passed  and  he 
failed  to  make  his  appearance. 

One  morning  Lionel  burst  into  Geraldine’s  room,  his 
cheeks  glowing,  and  his  eyes  radiant  with  excitement. 

“Oh!  mamma,  Mr.  Tony  is  in  the  parlor!  Mrs.  Graham 
is  out,  and  he  wants  to  see  you.  Just  see  what  he  brought 


148 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


me.  A  horse  and  wagon,  with  a  real  mane  and  tail,  which 
can  be  harnessed  and  unharnessed !  Can  I  go  down  into 
the  garden  and  show  it  to  Bob? 

Receiving  the  required  permission,  Lionel  darted  out  of 
the  room. 

Geraldine  paused  in  front  of  the  mirror  to  take  a  cursory 
glance  of  the  face  and  form  that  were  fast  rounding  into 
all  their  old  grace  and  contour. 

She  had  discarded  the  cap,  her  own  beautiful  hair,  just 
long  enough  to  fall  in  jetty  waves  around  the  face,  giving 
it  an  air  of  youthfulness  that  was  in  strong  contrast  to  the 
gentle  gravity  of  her  look  and  manner. 

In  order  to  exclude  the  rays  of  the  hot  July  sun,  the 
windows  of  the  parlor  had  been  darkened,  so  that  Geral¬ 
dine  saw  only  the  dim  outline  of  the  form  that  arose  on 
her  entrance,  but  this  faint  glimpse  made  her  listen  with 
painful  intentness  to  the  voice  that  said : 

“  I  beg  pardon  for  troubling  you,  madam,  but  Mr.  Smith 
has  made  it  an  especial  point  that  I  should  see  you  at  my 
next  visit  to  River  view.  He  desires  to  know - ” 

Going  to  the  window  Geraldine  turned  the  blinds  so  that 
the  light  fell  full,  not  only  upon  her  face,  but  that  of  the 
speaker. 

Springing  forward,  he  stared  wildly  into  the  pale  but 
beautiful  face  that  confronted  him. 

“  Good  heavens!  Geraldine— Mrs.  Bayard — is  it,  can  it 

be  youV ' 

“Hush!  Do  not  speak  that  name  here!  it  is  no  longer 
mine.  Any  intimation  that  it  ever  has  been  will  not  fail 
to  bring  upon  me  a  sorrow  and  trouble  that  I  shudder  to 
contemplate.” 

“I  will  say  nothing  to  harm  you,  Geraldine,”  said  the 
man,  in  an  agitated  manner.  “  I  would  a  thousand  times 
rather  harm  myself.  You  surely  ought  to  know  this.  But 
how  is  it  that  I  find  you  here  in  this  strange  guise  and 
position?  Tell  me - ” 

“  I  can  tell  you  nothing,”  interrupted  Geraldine,  shrink¬ 
ing  back  from  the  hand  t hat  was  extended  toward  her— 
“  at  least  not  now,  not  here.” 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Graham’s  voice  was  heard  in  the 
hall,  speaking  to  one  of  the  servants. 

Geraldine  continued,  still  more  hurriedly : 

‘  ‘  I  beseech  you  to  be  silent !  To  give  no  token  that  we 
have  ever  met  before  ” 

Geraldine  was  standing  near  the  open  window,  which 
descended  to  the  floor,  stepping  through  it  upon  the  porcli 
just  as  Mrs.  Graham  entered. 

That  lady  paused  upon  the  threshold,  glancing  around 


A  WIFE'S  CHIME.  149 

the  room  with  an  air  of  surprise.  Then,  advancing,  she 
said: 

“I  beg  pardon,  this  is  Mr.  Smith’s  secretary,  I  believe? 
You  are  very  welcome.  I  thought  Mrs.  Geraldine  was 
here.” 

The  secretary  bowed,  showing  a  self-possession  that  was 
remarkable,  under  the  circumstances. 

“  She  was  here  a  moment  ago,  madam,  but  the  air  being 
a  little  close,  she  has  stepped  out  upon  the  porch.” 

Acting  upon  this  hint,  Mrs.  Graham  threw  up  another 
window,  so  as  to  make  a  circulation  of  air,  remarking,  as 
she  did  so : 

“  It  is  a  very  close  and  sultry  day,  and  a  thunder-storm 
would  be  very  welcome  and  refreshing.” 

Leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch,  Geraldine 
listened,  like  one  in  a  dream,  to  the  murmur  of  voices 
within. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  patter  of  little  feet,  and  then  a 
clear,  childish  voice,  rising  above  all  the  others,  cried : 

“Mamma!  Where  is  mamma?” 

These  words  aroused  in  the  unhappy  mother’s  heart  an 
agony  of  terror  that  swept  everything  before  it. 

Not  daring  to  trust  herself  to  speak  or  act  in  this  new 
and  unlooked-for  emergency,  she  fled  to  her  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A  HARD  AND  PERPLEXING  POSITION. 

Interested  as  Mrs.  Graham  was  in  Geraldine,  she  was 
very  naturally  anxious  that  she  should  make  a  favorable 
impression  upon  one  sustaining  such  confidential  relations 
to  the  guardian  of  her  pupil. 

So,  as  soon  as  her  husband  entered,  and  she  was  able  to 
excuse  herself  to  her  guest,  she  sought  Geraldine’s  room. 

She  was  beginning  to  take  an  elder  sister’s  pride  in  her 
protegee's  grace  and  beauty,  the  new-born  bloom  and  bright¬ 
ness  that  was  giving  to  cheek  and  eye  such  a  wondrous 
charm;  so  she  was  proportionably  disappointed  as  she 
looked  at  the  pale  face  that  confronted  her. 

“Dear  me!  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  have  one  of 
your  nervous  headaches.  Mr.  Smith’s  secretary  is  here, 
and  I  am  so  anxious  that  you  should  see  and  converse  with 
him.” 

“I  did  see  him  just  a  few  moments,”  responded  Geral¬ 
dine,  forcing  a  smile  to  her  lips  as  she  saw  the  dismayed 
look  in  the  speaker’s  face.  “This  is  nothing;  it  will  pass 
away  in  an  hour  or  so.” 

“  Do  you  really  think  so?”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  her  face 


150 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


brightening;  “and  that  you  will  be  well  enough  to  come 
down  to  dinner?  It  will  not  be  served  before  two.” 

“I  shall  be  entirely  recovered  by  that  time,  probably 
before.  A  couple  of  hours’  rest  will  be  all  that  I  shall 
need.” 

“Then  I  won’t  hinder  you  from  taking  it.  I  wouldn’t 
mind  it  at  any  other  time.  You  could  remain  in  your 
room  all  day — and  it  would  probably  be  the  best  thing  you 
could  do,  for  you  are  looking  quite  ill.  But  you  did  not 
see  him  before,  you  know,  though  he  expressed  a  particu¬ 
lar  desire  to  meet  you,  and  if  you  do  not  now,  I’m  afraid 
that  Mr.  Smith  will  consider  it  to  be  a  little  odd.” 

“  I  shall  certainly  see  him,”  responded  Geraldine,  rais¬ 
ing  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  which  contracted  as  if  with 
sudden  pain.  “  How  long  does  he  intend  to  stay?” 

“  He  spoke  of  leaving  by  the  last  boat  down.  Now  lie  on 
the  lounge,  and  I  will  bring  you  something  that  Francis 
gave  me  once,  when  I  had  just  such  an  attack,  and  which 
did  me  a  wonderful  amount  of  good.” 

After  darkening  the  room,  and  seeing  Geraldine’s  head 
laid  upon  the  pillow  that  she  placed  upon  the  lounge,  Mrs. 
Graham  left  the  room. 

She  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  bearing  a  wine-glass  filled 
with  a  clear,  ruby  liquid,  which  did  not  look  as  if  it  would 
be  at  all  hard  to  take. 

“  Now  drink  this.  It  always  drives  my  headaches  away, 
as  if  by  magic,  if  it  is  only  taken  in  time.  Don’t  leave  a 
bit  of  it.” 

In  obedience  to  this  instruction,  Geraldine  drained  the 
glass  to  the  last  drop, 

“  You  are  good  to  me.” 

There  was  something  in  the  beautiful  eyes  that  were 
lifted  to  hers  that  made  Mrs.  Graham  kiss  the  lips  that 
uttered  these  words. 

“  I  mean  to  be  very  good  to  you.” 

“  Considering  the  relation  that  I  sustain  to  his  ward,” 
said  Geraldine,  speaking  with  a  visible  effort,  “it  is  not 
strange  that  Mr.  Smith  should  desire  his  secretary  to  see 
me,  and  I  should  not  think  of  allowing  him  to  leave  with¬ 
out  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  do  so.  But  the  condition 
in  which  he  finds  Lionel  will  be  more  conclusive  evidence 
as  to  my  fitness  or  unfitness  for  the  relation  I  sustain  to 
him  than  anything  I  can  say.  It  will  be  hardly  necessary 
for  him  to  hold  much  converse  with  me.” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that,”  was  the  quick  response.  “A 
person  occupying  the  position  that  he  holds,  must  have 
more  or  less  influence  with  his  employer,  and  it  is,  there¬ 
fore,  of  no  little  importance  that  you  should  make  a  favor¬ 
able  impression  upon  him,  as  you  are  sure  to  do,  if  you  are 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


151 


well  enough  to  be  yourself.  But  I  mustn’t  tire  you  by 
talking.  Try  to  take  a  little  nap.  I  will  send  Katy  up 
when  it  is  time  to  dress.  ” 

“  How  good,  how  kind  she  is!”  thought  Geraldine,  as  the 
door  closed  softly  behind  the  speaker.  “  But,  ah!  it  is  be¬ 
cause  she  does  not  know  me.  Were  the  dark  records  of 
my  past  life  laid  open  before  her,  how  differently  she  would 
regard  me !  Did  she  know  of  the  terrible  crime  that  stained 
so  redly  these  soft,  white  hands,  she  would  shrink  away 
from  me  with  horror  and  loathing.  What  a  terrible  life  to 
lead,  but  there  is  no  respite,  no  help,  as  I  can  see.  For  the 
sake  of  my  children,  whom  I  have  robbed  of  their  natural 
guardian  and  protector,  I  must  go  on  with  all  these  shams 
and  hypocrisies,  this  seeming  to  be  what  I  am  not.  Ah ! 
how  true  it  is  that  one  sin,  one  deception,  inevitably  leads 
to  another.  Will  he  betray  me?  I  cannot  believe  that  he 
will  meaningly  do  this,  but  a  chance  word,  a  look  even, 
may  do  me  incalculable  mischief.” 

Mrs.  Graham  did  not  fail  to  interpret  aright  the  inquir¬ 
ing  look  that  her  guest  gave  her  as  she  re-entered  the  room. 

Dr.  Graham  was  present,  who  had  been  doing  his  best 
to  entertain  him,  with  rather  indifferent  success,  as  could 
be  seen  by  the  absent  look  upon  the  face  of  his  guest,  as 
well  as  his  evident  air  of  relief  as  his  wife  entered. 

“  Mrs.  Geraldine  has  a  touch  of  her  old  enemy,  the  head¬ 
ache,”  said  Mrs.  Graham,  addressing  her  husband.  “But 
she  is  better  already,  and  I  think  will  be  down  to  dinner.” 

The  speaker’s  eyes  resting  on  the  face  of  her  guest  as 
she  pttered  these  words,  he  said,  with  an  air  of  hesitation 
and  constraint  that  amounted  almost  to  awkwardness: 

“  I  thought  Mrs. — this  lady — to  be  looking  rather  pale; 
is  not  her  health  ordinarily  good?” 

“Mrs.  Geraldine’s  severe  illness  of  last  winter  left  her 
very  weak,”  said  Dr.  Graham,  who  felt  that  he  could  best 
speak  in  relation  to  this  point,  “  and  with  a  predisposition 
to  attacks  of  nervous  headache,  but  she  has  been  unusually 
well  of  late.  In  fact,  I  could  see  an  improvement  in  her 
every  day.” 

Here  the  fear  arose  in  Mrs.  Graham’s  mind  lest  it  might 
be  considered  that  these  attacks  would  affect  Geraldine  in 
the  duties  she  owed  to  her  pupil,  and  in  her  zealous  friend¬ 
ship,  she  said : 

“Yes,  indeed,  I  think  that  I  never  saw  any  one  improve 
so  much  in  such  a  short  space  of  time.” 

“I  don’t  remember  of  her  having  one  of  her  nervous 
headaches  since  you  were  here  before,”  added  the  speaker, 
turning  to  her  guest.  “She  had  one  at  the  time,  as  you 
remember,  and  was  unable  to  see  you.  I  have  often 


152 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


noticed  that  they  were  generally  brought  on  by  some  anxi 
ety  or  excitement.” 

Mrs.  Graham  smiled  as  she  saw  the  startled  look  in  the 
eyes  that  were  turned  inquiringly  upon  her,  hastening  to 
say: 

“  Mrs.  Geraldine  has  become  very  much  attached  to  her 
pupil — as,  indeed,  we  all  are;  and  knowing  the  object  of 
your  visit  here,  has,  naturally,  the  anxiety  that  she  would 
have  in  regard  to  anything  likely  to  affect,  however  re¬ 
motely,  her  relations  to  him.” 

“It  is  entirely  unnecessary,  madam,  I  do  assure  you. 
Mr.  Smith  is  quite  satisfied  with  the  relation  she  sustains  to 
his  ward,  and  I  have  no  wish,  even  if  I  had  the  power,  to 
disturb  it.  I  beg  that  you  will  assure  her  that  she  has 
nothing  to  fear  from  me,  in  this  or  any  other  respect.” 

Mrs.  Graham  was  not  only  surprised,  but  somewhat  em¬ 
barrassed,  by  the  earnestness  with  which  this  was  spoken, 
and  which  was  so  disproportioned  to  the  occasion. 

“I  will  take  great  pleasure  in  doing  so,”  she  said,  with  a 
smile.  “  You  will  have  an  opportunity  of  doing  this  per¬ 
sonally,  however,  which  will  be  more  satisfactory,  I  dare 
say.” 

Then,  desirous  of  changing  the  conversation,  si  ie  asked 
some  questions  concerning  his  journey,  addressing  him  by 
the  name  by  which  Lionel  always  called  him,  and  which 
she  supposed  to  be  his. 

“  It  seems  that  we  have  made  a  mistake  in  regard  to  the 
gentleman’s  name,”  interposed  Dr.  Graham;  “he  informs 
me  that  it  is  not  Tony,  but  Antonelli.” 

“  The  mistake  is  a  very  natural  one,”  remarked  that  gen¬ 
tleman,  as  he  met  the  surprised  look  in  the  eyes  of  his 
hostess — “indeed,  quite  unavoidable,  under  the  circum¬ 
stances.  My  name  being  rather  long,  and  difficult  to  pro¬ 
nounce,  I  let  our  little  friend  call  me  by  the  name  by  which 
I  was  called  when  I  was  at  his  age,  and  which  is  a  con¬ 
traction  of  my  Christian  name.  Contrary  to  my  expecta¬ 
tion,  Lionel  politely  prefixed  Mr.  to  it,  which  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  being  my  true  name.  Being  constitutionally 
averse  to  taking  any  unnecessary  trouble,  as  it  seemed  to 
suit  him  and  did  no  harm  to  me,  I  let  the  matter  go.” 

Mrs.  Graham  smiled  her  acceptance  of  this  frankly  ex¬ 
pressed  apology  and  explanation,  her  eyes  taking  a  more 
careful  survey  of  the  speaker  than  they  had  yet  done. 

He  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  about  thirty,  with  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  and  a  form  less  remarkable  for  strength 
than  grace  and  suppleness. 

Beneath  the  constitutional  indolence  alluded  to  could  be 
seen  a  latent  fire  and  passion,  which  showed  that  he  was 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


153 


capable,  when  fully  aroused,  of  strong,  if  not  lasting  feel¬ 
ing. 

On  the  whole  she  felt  interested  in  him. 

They  were  all  seated  at  the  table  when  Geraldine  came 
in,  holding  Lionel  by  the  hand. 

Though  Mrs.  Graham  had  intended  that  the  children 
should  eat  by  themselves  that  day,  she  was  secretly 
pleased  at  the  boy’s  appearance;  he  looked  so  neat  and 
pretty  in  his  fresh  suit  of  embroidered  linen,  and  was, 
withal,  thanks  to  Geraldine’s  patient  and  careful  tutoring, 
so  quiet  and  mannerly,  that  she  felt  that  they  could  not 
fail  to  produce  a  most  favorable  impression  upon  her 
guest,  and  which  she  considered  of  the  first  importance. 

With  this  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind,  sne  bade  the 
servant  bring  Lionel’s  chair,  and  place  it  by  Geraldine. 

But  it  is  doubtful  as  to  whether  Antonelli  saw  the  boy, 
his  eyes  being  fixed  upon  his  beautiful  mother  with  a  pas¬ 
sionate  intensity,  which  it  was  well  that  there  was  no  one 
present  with  sufficient  leisure  to  observe. 

Geraldine’s  face,  though  somewhat  pale,  was  composed. 

In  their  first  general  sweep  around  the  table,  her  eyes 
rested  for  a  moment  upon  Antonelli,  inclining  her  head  al¬ 
most  imperceptibly  to  his  deferential  bow. 

Then  she  busied  herself  in  attending  to  Lionel’s  wants, 
and  did  not  look  in  that  direction  again. 

There  being  other  company  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Graham  was 
too  much  engaged  with  her  duties  as  hostess  to  pay  much 
attention  to  Geraldine,  except  to  observe  that  she  was  more 
silent  than  usual. 

“  Mrs.  Geraldine  is  hardly  looking  herself  to-day,”  she 
remarked  to  Antonelli,  as  they  left  the  dining-room  for  the 
parlor;  “she  is  generally  very  cheerful  and  companion¬ 
able.  Has  not  Lionel  improved  wonderfully  since  he  came 
here?” 

He  is  looking  very  finely,  indeed,”  said  her  companion, 
abstractedly,  who  had  not  the  faintest  idea  as  to  whether 
the  boy  looked  well  or  ill. 

Geraldine  followed,  Still  holding  Lionel's  hand,  as  though 
she  thought  that  the  presence  of  so  much  beauty  and  inno¬ 
cence  would  shield  her  from  wrong  and  danger. 

Turning  round  to  her,  Mrs.  Graham  now  said : 

“We  were  speaking  of  Lionel,  my  dear;  Mr.  Antonelli 
thinks  that  he  is  looking  finely.” 

Those  coldly  averted  eyes  turned  gratefully  upon  the 
person  alluded  to,  a  soft  and  tender  smile  brooding  around 
the  lips  that  said : 

“  I  am  glad  to  know  that  Mr.  Antonelli  will  have  such  a 
favorable  and  pleasant  report  to  take  back  with  him.” 

“  X  shall,  most  certainly,  have  nothing  else  to  report,” 


154 


A  .  WIFE  ' 8  CRIME. 


said  Antonelli,  making  an  effort  to  repress  the  passion  that 
surged  up  from  his  heart  at  these  words,  but  which  was 
clearly  perceptible  to  its  object. 

A  shudder  ran  through  her  veins,  the  transient  flush 
faded  from  her  cheek,  and  her  manner  returned  to  its  old 
coldness  and  quietude. 

Here  the  advent  of  several  persons  into  the  room  made 
anything  but  general  conversation  impossible,  to  Gerald¬ 
ine’s  evident  relief,  who  joined,  as  she  was  never  known  to 
do  before,  in  the  gay  talk  that  followed. 

In  the  meantime  Antonelli  stood  moodily  apart,  his 
mind  distracted  by  the  passionate  desire  to  speak  to  Geral¬ 
dine  privately,  and  angered  at  her  evident  determination 
to  give  him  no  opportunity  to  do  so. 

To  this  was  added  the  wild  fear,  that  occasionally  swept 
over  him,  lest  he  should  do  or  say  something  that  would 
draw  suspicion  on  them  both. 

It  may  be  that  Geraldine,  who  knew  his  hot,  impulsive 
temper,  shared  this  fear,  for  once  she  looked  toward  him, 
a  sad,  beseeching  expression  in  her  eyes  which  touched  his 
heart,  allaying  his  anger,  but  not  the  impatience  that  had 
taken  such  complete  possession  of  him. 

On  the  plea  of  not  feeling  well,  which  no  one  could  deny 
that  looked  at  her,  Geraldine  excused  herself  early,  saying, 
in  reply  to  Mrs.  Graham’s  remonstrance,  “that  she  would 
take  her  tea  with  the  children.” 

Geraldine  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  eyes  that  followed 
her  to  the  door,  toward  which  she  could  not,  dared  not 
look.  * 

The  feeling  of  relief  that  she  experienced  as  she  found 
herself  in  her  own  room  was  followed  by  a  disquietude 
which  grew  deeper  and  deeper  the  longer  she  reflected 
upon  the  position  in  which  she  was  placed. 

It  was  evident  that  she  must  see  this  man.  Even  if  he 
were  content  to  do  so,  it  would  be  a  dangerous  thing  to  let 
him  go  away  without  an  explanation  and  understanding. 

But  how  was  she  to  do  this? 

It  could  not  be  effected  in  the  presence  of  a  third  party, 
and  there  were  things  in  her  past  life  which  made  her 
shrink  with  unconquerable  repugnance  from  anything  like 
a  clandestine  interview. 

Oh !  if  he  would  only  go  away,  and  leave  her  to  live  the 
life  she  had  marked  out  for  herself,  to  make  the  atone¬ 
ment  she  could  make  in  no  other  way. 

Seeking  in  various  ways  to  solve  this  hard  problem,  Ger¬ 
aldine  sat  in  her  favorite  seat  by  the  window,  with  little 
Isabel  in  her  arms,  listening  absently,  and  yet  insensibly 
goothed  by  her  innocent  .prattle, 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME .  155 

Suddenly  there  came  the  patter  of  little  feet,  and  then 
Lionel  burst  in,  his  face  full  of  importance. 

‘k  I’ve  got  something  for  you,  mamma.  Mr.  Tony  said 
that  I  was  to  let  no  one  see  it  but  you.” 

As  Geraldine’s  eyes  fell  on  the  note  that  Lionel  held  out 
to  her,  her  face  flushed  with  shame  and  indignation. 

Was  her  innocent  child  to  be  the  medium  of  casting 
further  dishonor  on  his  dead  father,  whose  memory  had 
become  so  dear? 

Stung  by  this  thought,  Geraldine  snatched  the  note  from 
Lionel’s  hand,  uttering  words  of  sharp  reproof,  such  as 
she  had  never  spoken  to  him  before. 

Overcoming  the  impulse  that  came  over  her  to  tear  the 
note  into  fragments,  Geraldine  opened  and  read  it. 

Its  contents  were  brief,  and  as  follows : 

Geraldine, — I  can  bear  this  suspense  no  longer.  Your 
strange  conduct,  you  careful  avoidance  of  me,  is  driving 
me  to  the  verge  of  madness.  I  ask  you,  for  your  own 
sake,  not  to  push  me  too  far.  When  I  look  at  you,  and 
think  of  all  we  have  been  to  each  other,  and  how  we  now 
seem  to  stand,  I  am  not  sure  of  myself,  or  what  it  may 
lead  me  to  do. 

.  must  and  will  see  you,  if  only  for  ten  minutes,  and 
it  must  be  alone.  It  is  for  you  to  say  when  and  where.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  MEETING  IN  THE  SUMMER  HOUSE. 

Antonelli  stood  in  the  lower  part  of  the  garden,  near 
the  vine-covered  summer-house,  and  in  full  view  of  the 
window  by  which  Geraldine  was  sitting,  taking  no  heed 
of  the  bloom  and  fragance  around  him. 

He  could  see  the  the  outlines  of  her  form,  the  form  of 
the  one  woman,  in  all  the  world,  to  him,  and  it  stirred  to 
its  depths  his  passionate  nature,  bringing  before  him  all 
that  she  had  oncebeen  to  him,  all  that  he  fondly  hoped 
she  would  be  to  him  again. 

The  sunset  fires  were  burning  redly  in  the  western  sky, 
while  no  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  hour  and  place, 
save  the  gay  tones  of  Mrs.  Graham,  who  was  saying  a  few 
last  words  to  her  departing  guests. 

Moving  up  and  down  the  walk  with  restless,  irregular 
steps,  Antonelli  strove  vainly  to  still  the  fierce  impatience 
at  his  heart,  as  he  watched  for  the  return  of  his  little 
messenger. 

Lionel  made  his  appearance  at  last,  but  not  with  the 
animated  and  eager  face  with  which  he  bounded  away; 
his  step  was  slow  and  his  face  sober. 


£56 


A  WIFE 'S  CHIME. 


“What  made  you  so  long  V”  was  the  impatient  inquiry. 
“You  gave  her  the  note;  what  did  she  say?” 

“She  was  very  angry,  mamma  was,”  said  the  boy  in  a 
low  tone.  “  She  said  I  mustn’t  bring  her  any  more  letters 
that  nobody  was  to  know  about.” 

“  She’s  very  particular  all  at  once!”  muttered  Antonelli, 
a  bitter  sneer  curling  his  lip,  which  gave  his  face  anything 
but  a  pleasant  expression.  “  She  defies  me,  it  seems.  Let 
her  be  careful ;  love  turned  to  hate  is  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  encounter.” 

Antonelli  clinched  his  hand  as  he  said  this,  his  face 
darkening  with  the  conflicting  passions  which  struggled 
for  the  mastery  in  his  breast. 

All  this  was  in  full  view  of  Geraldine.  She  saw  Lionel 
go  up  and  speak  to  Antonelli,  well  knowing  that  he  would 
not  fail  to  repeat  the  ill-advised  words  that  had  fallen  from' 
her  lips.  She  saw  the  angry  and  passionate  gesture  that 
followed,  well  knowing  all  that  it  portended. 

Her  resolution  was  quickly  taken. 

With  Isabel  still  clinging  to  her  neck,  she  passed  down 
the  stairs,  out  into  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  just  ahead  of  her,  going  apparently 
in  the  same  direction  to  where  Antonelli  was  standing,  who 
evidently  saw  their  approach. 

A  beautiful  woman  never  looks  more  lovely  than  when 
she  holds  her  babe  in  her  arms.  And  as  Antonelli  looked 
at  Geraldine,  as  she  stood  there  before  him,  invested  with 
the  sacredness,  the  dignity  the  tender  grace  of  maternity, 
every  resentful  feeling  was  swept  from  a  heart  not 
naturally  hard  or  evil,  however  impulsive  and  passionate 
it  might  be. 

Geraldine  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief  as  she  saw  the 
softened  look  in  the  eyes,  saying,  before  any  one  else  could 
speak : 

“  I  learned  through  Lionel,  Mr.  Antonelli,  that  you  desire 
a  private  interview  with  me  before  returning  to  New  York, 
which  it  is  quite  natural  and  right  that  you  should  have, 
under  the  circumstances.” 

The  calm,  clear,  steady  tone  in  which  Geraldine  said  this 
was  a  marvel  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Graham  had  been  secretly  vexed  at  Geraldine’s 
reserve,  and  apparent  avoidance  of  one  whose  good  opinion 
she  was  so  anxious  that  she  should  gain,  so  the  first  reeling 
of  surprise  was  followed  by  one  of  pleasure. 

Turning  to  Isabel,  she  said : 

“Come  with  auntie,  darling,  and  let  us  go  and  find 
Bob.” 

In  anticipation  of  the  frolic  that  was  sure  t>>  f<  llow  this* 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  157 

the  child  uttered  a  crow  of  delight,  springing  into  the  arms 
that  were  held  out  to  her. 

Geraldine  watched  Mrs.  Graham  as  she  moved  toward 
the  house,  holding  Lionel  by  the  hand,  until  she  disap¬ 
peared  from  view,  and  then,  as  if  in  mute  recognition  of 
his  claim  to  a  private  interview,  went  into  the  summer¬ 
house  by  which  they  were  standing,  Anton elli  following 
her. 

The  human  heart  is  a  strange,  unreasoning  thing.  An- 
tonelli  had  gained  the  boon  for  which  he  had  so  earnestly 
sought,  but  that  which  lay  back  of  it — as  he  fondly  be¬ 
lieved — seemed  further  away  from  him  that  ever. 

He  had  imagined  all  that  he  would  say  to  the  idol  of  his 
heart,  were  the  opportunity  given  him — the  eloquent  and 
passionate  words  he  would  utter,  not;  one  of  which  he  could 
recall  now. 

There  was  something  in  the  gentle  dignity  of  Geraldine’s 
bearing,  the  open,  straight-forward  course  she  had  taken, 
which  chilled  him,  he  hardly  knew  why. 

He  would  have  been  far  better  pleased  if  fche  had  stolen 
out  of  the  house  at  midnight  to  see  him,  as  she  did  before, 
clinging  to  him  in  her  passionate  despair  and  sorrow,  even 
though  it  might  only  be  to  bid  him  an  eternal  farewell. 

Contrary  to  what  might  have  been  expected,  Geraldine 
was  the  first  to  break  the  constrained  and  rather  awkward 
silence  that  followed. 

“  No  doubt  you  wonder  why  the  sight  of  you  should  be 
such  a  shock  to  me,  Antonio.  I  had  been  led  to  believe 
that  you  were  killed — murdered.” 

“And  so  I  was — or  nearly  so:  it  was  only  by  a  hair’s 
breadth  that  my  life  was  saved,” 

Geraldine  shuddered. 

“  God  has  been  very  good  to  Us  both.  If  you  had  died, 
in  His  eyes  I  should  be  your  murderess.” 

Antonelli  started  back,  looking  at  Geraldine  as  though 
he  thought  she  was  bereft  of  her  senses. 

Reassured  by  the  steady,  mournful  gaze  that  he  encount¬ 
ered,  he  said : 

“  You  my  murderess?  Why  do  you  say  that,  Geraldine?” 

“Because  it  is  the  truth.  Because  it  was  my  folly,  if 
not  actual  guilt,  that  drove  my  husband  to  the  madness 
and  despair  that  alone  could  make  such  a  thing  possible.” 

Antonelli  s  face  darkened. 

“So  it  was  he?  I  thought  so  at  the  time;  but  it  was  a 
back-handed  thrust,  and  so  dark  that  I  could  not  see.  Not 
that  I  should  have  known  him,  as  I  never  saw  him,  to  my 
knowledge.” 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  Antonelli  cast  a  look  of 


168  A  WIPE'S  CHIME. 

tender  reproach  upon  his  companion’s  partially  averted 
face. 

“  You  say  that  you  were  surprised  to  see  me,  Geraldine; 
were  you  not  glad,  also?” 

“  How  could  I  help  being  glad  to'  know  that  the  father 
of  my  dear  babes  has  not  such  a  stain  upon  his  hand  as 
this?” 

“You  think  only  of  him!”  exclaimed  Antonelli,  bitterly, 
“  you  care  nothing  for  me.” 

“I  am  glad  for  your  sake,  also,”  said  Geraldine,  with 
the  gentle  coldness  that  was  more  irritating  to  her  com¬ 
panion  than  scorn  or  defiance;  “  glad,  very  glad  to  know 
that  you  are  not  only  alive,  but  happy  and  prosperous.  I 
should  like  to  know  more  about  yourself,  especially  how 
you  came  to  be  the  private  secretary  of  Lionel’s  guardian?” 

“I  know  no  more  about  that  than  you  do,”  responded 
Antonelli,  with  the  shrug  of  the  shoulder  that  Geraldine  so 
well  remembered.  “  He  heard  of  me  a  few  weeks  after  I 
was  wounded— through  Dr.  Graham,  I  think,  coming  to 
see  me  at  the^farmer’s  house  to  which  I  was  taken.  When 
I  got  well,  he  took  me  into  his  employ.  I  can’t  tell  you 
why  he  did  that  either.  ” 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  in  which  this  was 
spoken,  the  absence  of  the  gratitude  that  might  be  ex¬ 
pected  under  the  circumstances  named,  which  struck 
strangely  upon  Geraldine’s  ear. 

“He  did  it  from  pure  kindness  of  heart,  I  presume. 
What  else  could  it  be?  Mrs.  Graham  tells  me  that  he  has 
the  kindest  of  hearts,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  has  proved  it 
by  his  treatment  of  me.  You  should  be  very  grateful  to 
him,  Antonio.” 

Antonelli  responded  to  this  reproachful  tone  with  an¬ 
other  shrug  of  the  shoulder. 

“So  I  am,  so  far  as  his  nature  and  mine  will  allow.  Mr. 
Smith  has  been  kind  to  me,  there’s  no  denying  that— unac¬ 
countably  so,  in  some  ways — but  it  always  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  from  some  freak,  fie  is,  certainly,  the  oddest 
man  alive.  Notwithstanding  the  position  I  hold,  and  which 
brings  me  into  such  confidential  relations  with  him,  I  am 
no  better  acquainted  with  him  now  than  I  was  the  first 
day  I  saw  him.  The  thought  has  often  struck  me,  that  he 
endured,  rather  than  cared  for,  my  presence.  However, 
I  suppose  that  would  be  his  way  toward  any  one.  But  tell 
me  about  yourself,  Geraldine.  How  is  it  that  you  are  here 
in  this  strange  guise,  away  from  your  home  and  husband?” 

“  I  have  no  home  and  no  husband.” 

An  exultant  flash  broke  from  Antonelli’s  eyes. 

“  Is  your  husband  dead?  Then  you  are  free,  Gerald  in®  f* 

Geraldine  drew  back  from  that  outstretched  hand. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


m 

“My  husband  is  dead,  but  his  death  has  not  freed  me; 
on  the  contrary,  it  has  bound  me  more  strongly  than  be¬ 
fore.” 

“You — you  talk  very  strangely,  Geraldine,”  faltered 
Antouelli,  gazing  almost  in  awe  at  the  speaker,  whose  face 
wore  a  look  that  he  had  never  seen  there  before. 

“  Do  I?  1  have  passed  through  strange  experiences,  have 
endured  terrible  sufferings.  And  what  is  more  bitter  than 
anything  else,  I  have  the  consciousness  that  all  that  I  have 
suffered,  all  that  others  have  suffered,  has  been  the  out¬ 
growth  of  my  own  folly.  For  the  sake  of  my  children.  I 
can  say  no  more— save  that  I  am  widowed,  they  rendered 
fatherless,  and  by  my  own  hand. 

“  I  cannot  tell  you  how  this  is,”  continued  Geraldine,  as 
Antonelli,  with  a  gesture  of  astonishment  and  incredulity, 
was  about  to  speak.  “I  can  say  little  more.  I  cannot, 
prudently,  linger  here;  nor  can  I  at  this,  *or  any  other 
time,  enter  into  particulars.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  my 
husband’s  death  threw  me  into  the  power  of  my  brothers, 
who  treated  me  most  cruelly.  I  escaped  from  them,  and 
they  consider  me  dead.  Not  only  my  own  safety,  but  what 
is  far  dearer  to  me,  the  guardianship  of  my  boy,  depends 
upon  their  continuing  to  think  so.” 

Antonelli  was  touched  by  that  appealing  look. 

“  You,  surely,  cannot  think  that  I  would  betray  you, 
Geraldine,  or  do  anything  to  cause  you  any  fresh  sorrow?” 

“No;  I  do  not  think  you  would.  I  should  be  sorry  to 
think  so.” 

Geraldine  stepped  out  of  the  summer-house  as  she  said 
this. 

Springing  forward,  Antonelli  cried : 

“  Surely  this  is  not  all?  I  shall  see  you  again?” 

“Certainly;  the  relation  you  sustain  to  Lionel’s  guard¬ 
ian  makes  that  a  matter  of  course.” 

Antonelli  watched  Geraldine  as  she  moved  up  toward 
the  house. 

“  HA w  changed  she  is!”  he  thought,  “  how  cold  and  in¬ 
different.  But  she  loved  me  once,  I  know,  and  she  shall 
again !” 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MR.  SMITH’S  ADVICE  AND  OPINION. 

Antonelli’s  long  and  late  conference  with  Geraldine  pre¬ 
vented  the  carrying  out  of  his  purpose  to  leave  by  the  last 
boat,  for  which,  perhaps,  he  was  not  sorry,  as  it  gave  him 
an  opportunity  to  see  Geraldine  again,  though  only  in  the 
presence  of  others,  and  to  hold  some  conversation  with 
per,  though  as  to  the  merest  commonplaces. 


160 


A  WIFjL 


o 


CRIME. 


fortunately  for  the  latter,  in  carrying  out  her  purpose, 
the  house  was  full  of  company,  friend^  from  the  city,  who 
usually  visited  Riverview  at  that  season  of  the  year,  and 
which  enabled  Geraldine  to  avoid  the  slightest  approach  to 
anything  like  private  conversation,  and  without  appearing 
to  do  so. 

There  was  a  new-born  grace  and  beauty  about  Geraldine 
which  her  former  lover  had  never  seen  there  before,  which 
came  from  within  rather  than  from  without,  finding  a  nat¬ 
ural  outlet  and  expression  in  the  external  loveliness  with 
which  she  was  so  richly  endowed.  And  however  incapable 
Antonelli  might  be  of  comprehending  or  appreciating  this, 
he  felt  its  charm. 

He  was  not  a  man  capable  of  enduring  affection,  espe¬ 
cially  in  the  prolonged  absence  of  its  object;  and  might 
have  thought  the  love,  for  which  he  nearly  paid  the  forfeit 
of  his  life,  to  be  costing  him  too  dear. 

But  however  this  might  be,  his  first  glance  at  Geraldine 
had  swept  all  prudential  considerations  away ;  at  the  first 
sound  of  her  voice,  all  the  passionate  love  of  his  ardent  nat¬ 
ure  had  come  back  to  him,  and  which  was  intensified  by 
the  strange,  intangible  barrier  that  had  sprung  up  between 
them. 

So,  impelled  by  a  fascination  that  he  was  unable  to  resist, 
he  lingered  until  after  dinner,  glad,  if  not  content,  to  be 
within  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  to  watch  her  at  a  dis¬ 
tance. 

But,  though  able  to  keep  guard  over  his  tongue,  his  eyes 
were  not  so  easily  governed. 

Even  Mrs.  Graham  noticed  the  intensity  of  his  gaze. 

Not  having  the  slightest  idea  of  the  true  state  of  things, 
or  that  the  two  had  ever  met  before,  she  ventured  upon  a 
sly  allusion  to  it  to  Geraldine,  whom  she  met  in  the  hall 
after  dinner,  on  her  way  to  the  school-room. 

But  it  was  something  that  she  never  repeated;  the 
pained  look  in  Geraldine’s  eyes,  the  few  disjointed  words 
that  fell  from  her  lips,  showing  how  distasteful  to  her  this 
allusion,  and  all  that  it  implied  was. 

Antonelli,  who  was  to  leave  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour, 
was  not  long  in  missing  Geraldine,  and  conjecturing 
whither  she  had  gone,  followed  her;  Mrs.  Graham  having 
taken  him  there  the  day  before,  he  experienced  no  diffi¬ 
culty  in  finding  his  way. 

He  found  Geraldine’s  two  pupils  there,  Bob  and  Lionel, 
the  latter  leaning  his  head  against  his  mother’s  knee,  the 
former  so  absorbed  in  the  book  that  was  lying  open  upon 
the  desk  before  him,  that*  he  only  glanced  up  as  Antonelli 
entered. 

Now  Antonelli  did  not  mind  Lionel,  though  fie  would 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME .  161 

have  preferred  his  absence,  but  Bob  was  not  a  little  in  his 
way. 

Addressing  Geraldine,  he  said : 

“I  have  come  to  take  leave  of  you,  madam.” 

“Would  you  mind,  my  good  lad,”  he  added,  turning  to 
Bob,  “  stepping  down-stairs  to  see  if  the  carriage  is 
come?” 

Bob  arose,  giving  Geraldine  a  questioning  look  as  he  did 
so,  who  was  fully  equal  to  the  emergency. 

“My  dear  boy,”  she  said,  addressing  Lionel,  “  Robert  is 
very  busy  at  his  lessons,  will  you  run  down  and  see  if  the 
carriage  is  at  the  door?  Come  directly  back.” 

Then,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  smothered  annoy¬ 
ance  and  irritation  m  Antonelli’s  countenance  at  being  thus 
“  headed  off,”  she  turned  to  that  individual,  saying: 

“  You  will  have  a  delightful  day  for  your  journey.  Please 
convey  my  thanks  to  Mr.  Smith  for  the  confidence  that  he 
reposes  in  me,  and  of  which  I  will  endeavor  to  prove  myself 
worthy.  Mrs.  Graham  and  myself  have  hoped  that  he 
would  visit  Riverview  some  time  in  the  course  of  the  sum¬ 
mer.” 

Antonelli’s  irritation  subsided  somewhat  beneath  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  the  smile  that  accompanied  these  words. 

“  I  cannot  say  as  to  that.  Mr.  Smith  seems  to  be  con¬ 
siderable  of  a  recluse.  I  will  tell  him  what  you  say.  I 
shall  come.” 

While  Antonelli  was  speaking  Lionel  came  running  back 
with  the  announcement,  that  the  carriage  was  waiting ;  and 
uttering  the  last  sentence  with  a  meaning  look  and  tone 
that  Geraldine  did  not  fail  to  understand,  the  speaker  bowed 
and  departed. 

Geraldine  listened  with  a  feeling  of  relief  to  the  sound  of 
the  carriage  wheels  as  it  moved  away  from  the  door. 

What  she  had  so  greatly  feared  was  deferred,  at  least. 
But  she  knew  the  nature  of  the  man  too  well  not  to  know 
that  it  was  only  deferred ;  that  he  would  not  only  “come,” 
as  he  had  said,  but  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  not 
to  see  him,  no  matter  how  distasteful  the  hopes  that  she 
could  not  but  see  that  he  cherished. 

And  she  had  once  loved  this  man,  or  thought  she  did, 
toward  whom  she  now  felt  so  strong  a  repugnance,  that  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Lionel  and  the  separation  it  would  in¬ 
volve,  she  would  have  taken  her  babe  and  fled  to  where 
there  would  be  no  possibility  of  her  meeting  him  again. 

And  this  man  loved  her;  there  was  no  seeming  in  this, 
it  was  instinct  in  every  look  that  he  gave  her. 

It  seemed  like  an  additional  wrong  to  the  husband,  to 
whose  memory  she  had  so  solemnly  vowed  to  be  true,  to 
harbor  such  thoughts,  but  so  it  was, 


162 


t 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


How  could  she  convince  him  that  he  could  more  easily 
kindle  to  life  cold,  dead  ashes,  than  awaken  any  response 
to  it  in  her  heart?  And  if  she  did,  would  it  not  arouse  a  re¬ 
sentment  that  would  prove  disastrous  to  all  her  hopes? 

But  all  this  was  in  the  future.  She  knew  the  straight 
path  that  lay  before  her,  and  in  which  she  must  walk,  to 
whatever  it  might  lead. 

In  her  temporary  madness,  she  had  separated  herself 
from  her  husband  in  this  life,  had,  voluntarily,  made  her¬ 
self  his  widow,  and  his  widow  she  would  remain,  devoting 
herself  entirely  to  his  children. 

She  knew  the  struggle  that  must  sooner  or  later  ensue; 
but  whether  it  brought  victory  or  defeat,  her  course,  so  far 
as  she  was  left  in  freedom,  must  be  the  same. 

At  the  worst  she  could  throw  herself  upon  the  mercy  and 
compassion  of  the  eccentric  but  kind-hearted  man  who  was 
Lionel’s  guardian,  why,  she  did  not  know,  nor  was  it  a 
matter  that  could  safely  be  inquired  into. 

If  Antonelli’s  eager  passion  turned  to  open  enmity,  as  is 
so  often  the  case  with  men  of  his  stamp  and  temperament, 
when  it  fails  to  meet  any  response  from  its  object,  she 
would  tell  Mr.  Smith  as  much  of  her  sorrowful  history  as 
she  dared  to  reveal  to  any  one. 

And  though  her  hopes  in  regard  to  any  favorable  result 
were  far  less  strong  than  her  fears,  she  felt  that  it  would  be 
the  least  painful  of  the  two  alternatives. 

In  the  meantime,  Antonelli  took  his  way  back  to.the  city, 
his  mind  a  perfect  maze  of  conflicting  hopes,  fears  and  con¬ 
jectures  . 

Beneath  his  elation  at  the  unexpected  discovery  he  had 
made,  were  the  mortification  and  disappointment  at  the  re¬ 
buff  he  had  had  from  a  quarter  where  he  had  least  thought 
to  receive  it,  and  which  wounded  his  vanity  quite  as  much 
as  his  love . 

From  this  he  fell  to  pondering  on  the  relation  that  his 
employer  sustained  to  Geraldine’s  boy. 

He  had  known,  in  a  casual  way,  that  she  had  children, 
and  that  Lionel  had  the  same  name,  but  being  more  accus¬ 
tomed  to  Geraldine’s  maiden  than  married  name,  it  had 
made  little  impression  upon  him,  while  the  supposition 
that  Mr.  Smith’s  ward  was  an  orphan  precluded  any  sus¬ 
picion  of  the  true  state  of  things. 

But  he  was  not  sorry  for  the  hold  that  this  gave  him  on 
the  woman  he  loved,  and  who  had  once  loved  him.  Not 
that  he  intended  to  use  it  hardly;  on  the  contrary,  he 
meant  to  be  very  gentle  and  forbearing  in  its  exercise;  to 
be  her  friend  and  protector  in  the  strange  position  in  which 
she  was  placed,  at  least  so  far  as  she  would  let  him. 

StiU  power  is  sweet,  and  that  which  he  nad  over  Gerab 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME,  163 

dine  would  afford  him  numerous  advantages  in  re- winning 
her  affections,  as  he  had  fully  determined  to  do. 

It  would  give  him  the  privilege  of  seeing  her  often, 
establishing  confidential  relations  between  them,  and  then 
she  could  not  help  feeling  grateful  to  him  for  his  silence 
and  aid. 

Antonelli’s  mind  was  so  completely  absorbed  by  these 
thoughts  that  the  idea  as  to  how  his  employer  might  view 
his  prolonged  absence  never  occurred  to  him  until  he 
reached  the  house. 

Being  informed  by  one  of  the  servants  that  Mr.  Smith 
had  inquired  for  him  several  times,  he  proceeded  imme¬ 
diately  to  the  library,  having  no  very  clear  idea  as  to  how 
he  was  to  explain  his  conduct,  or  of  anything,  in  fact,  ex¬ 
cept  his  determination  to  keep  what  he  had  discovered  to 
himself,  at  least  for  the  present. 

Mr.  Smith  turned  himself  squarely  around,  on  his  en¬ 
trance. 

“  Well,  sir?” 

Antonelli  looked  slightly  confused  at  that  penetrating 
and  questioning  look. 

“No  doubt  you  are  surprised  at  my  long  absence,  sir, 
and  which  was  entirely  unforeseen  when  I  left,  as  well  as 
impossible  to  avoid,  under  the  circumstances.” 

“  You  are  right;  I  am  surprised.  What  has  happened?” 

Antonelli’s  face  took  a  still  deeper  flush. 

“  Nothing,  sir.  That  is  to  say,  nothing  that  I  could  well 
help.  I  missed  the  boat  yesterday  afternoon,  and  this 
morning - ” 

If  Mr.  Smith  did  not  enjoy  his  secretary’s  embarrass¬ 
ment,  he  certainly  was  in  no  way  inclined  to  help  him  out 
of  it. 

“Well,  sir,  there  have  been  two  trains  and  another  boat 
since  then.  What  happened  this  morning?” 

Whatever  Antonelli’s  fault  might  be.  either  of  education 
or  temperament,  it  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  him  to  stoop 
to  absolute  falsehood. 

“I  don’t  deny  but  what  something  has  happened  of  some 
moment  to  me  perhaps,  but  which  can  be - ” 

“Of  no  concern  to  me,”  said  Mr.  Smith,  filling  up  the 
pause  which  followed. 

“  Which  can  be  of  no  particular  interest  to  you,”  con¬ 
tinued  Antonelli,  smiling  at  this  fresh  proof  of  what  he 
considered  his  patron’s  oddity. 

“Perhaps  I  might  be  left  to  judge  of  that,”  said  Mr. 
Smith,  dryly.  “But  I  have  no  wish  to  force  your  confi¬ 
dence.  In  the  meantime  I  should  be  glad  to  have  your 
report  concerning  the  mission  I  intrusted  to  you,  and  in 


164 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


regard  to  which  I  may  be  allowed  to  take  some  interest 
How  did  you  find  my  ward?” 

“  Quite  well  and  very  happy.” 

“You  saw  his  governess?”  ; 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“What is  your  opinion  of  her?” 

“What  everybody’s  must  be  that  sees  her,  that  she  is  a 
most  lovely  and  attractive  woman.” 

“  Considering  your  long  stay  at  Riverview,  her  attract¬ 
iveness — to  you,  at  least— is  beyond  all  dispute.  I  referred, 
however,  to  her  fitness  as  governess  to  my  ward?” 

“  I  beg  pardon,  sir,”  responded  Antonelli,  coloring. 
“  My  opportunities  for  judging  as  to  this  have  been  limited, 
as  you  know,  but  so  far  as  I  have  seen,  I  do  not  think  you 
could  have  made  a  better  choice.” 

“I  will  see  that  you  have  all  the  opportunity  in  futurd 
that  your  desire. 

“Mind,  I  don’t  send  you  to  Riverview  to  make  love  to 
my  ward’s  governess,”  continued  Mr.  Smith,  as  he  ob¬ 
served  the  sparkle  to  his  companion’s  suddenly  lowered 
eyes.  “Still,  if  mutually  agreeable,  I  don’t  know  why  I 
should  object;  provided,  of  course,  neither  of  you  neglect 
the  duties  that  you  owe  me. 

“  Now  you  will  oblige  me  by  attending  to  these  accounts 
and  making  a  clean  copy  of  some  papers  that  you  will  find 
on  your  desk.” 

Antonelli  retreated  to  his  own  room  in  the  best  possible 
spirits. 

The  unexpected  manner  in  which  Mr.  Smith  played  into 
his  hands  was  a  source  of  surprise  as  well  as  pleasure. 

“  He  certainly  is  the  oddest  man  alive,”  he  thought. 
“  One  would  almost  think  that  he  sent  me  there  purposely. 
If  I  can  retain  my  secretaryship,  and  Geraldine  continues 
to  have  the  care  of  Lionel,  as  she  will,  of  course,  desire  to 
do,  our  united  salary  will  be  all  that  we  shall  require.” 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  WOOING. 

The  longer  that  Antonelli  pondered  on  the  interest  that 
his  wealthy  patron  had  manifested,  not  only  in  himself 
but  Geraldine,  the  more  he  was  convinced  that  he  would 
not  be  ill-pleased  at  the  marriage  of  his  two  proteges,  a 
conclusion  that  gave  him  no  little  satisfaction,  as  the 
reader  will  infer. 

He  recalled  Mr.  Smith’s  evident  dissatisfaction  at  not 
seeing  Geraldine  on  his  first  visit  to  Riverview,  the  efforts 
he  had  made  to  throw  them  together,  the  hints  and  allu¬ 
sions,  all  of  which  pointed  the  same  way. 


165 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

“  She  being  all  alone  in  the  world,  he  doubtless  considers 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  her,”  he  mused,  ‘‘and 
that  I  would  be  better  off  married.  He  must  think  that 
I  have  vR}?  kittle  common  sense,  however” — here  the  lip 
curled  a  little — *  to  marry  a  woman  of  whose  antecedents 
I  know,  as  he  supposes,  so  little.  But  men  in  love  have 
done  quite  as  foolish  things  as  this;  so  I  will  not  quarrel 
with  the  good  fortune  that  I  believe  is  in  store  for  me,  if  I 
am  brave  enough  to  make  a  right  use  of  the  opportunities 
that  are  now  mine.” 

With  these  views  and  considerations,  Antonelli  received, 
with  evident  satisfaction,  Mr.  Smith’s  announcement  of 
his  intention  of  sending  him  again  to  Riverview,  and 
which  was  made  in  less  than  two  weeks  from  the  date  of 
his  last  visit. 

Being  naturally  disposed  to  think  highly  of  himself,  no 
serious  doubt  entered  Antonelli’s  mmd  as  to  his  ultimate  suc¬ 
cess  in  re-winning  Geraldine's  love— her  husband’s  death 
was  too  recent,  the  circumstances  under  which  they  had 
parted  too  painful  for  her  to  take  kindly  to  his  advances 
now,  but  all  this  would  pass  away. 

With  few  fears  on  this  score  Antonelli’s  thoughts  took 
<piite  another  direction  as  he  neared  his  destination,  center¬ 
ing  upon  the  mystery  that  enveloped  Geraldine,  and  which 
he  was  unable  to  fathom,  the  dark  cloud  that  rested  on 
her,  and  which  was  likely  to  affect  him  in  the  relation  he 
was  so  sure  of  sustaining  to  her. 

He  knew  that  her  husband  had  been  a  very  wealthy  man ; 
how  was  it  that  this  boy  inherited  all,  and  his  widow  noth 
ing? 

He  paid  very  little  heed  to  Geraldine’s  wild  accusations 
in  regard  to  her  husband,  and  which  he  believed  to  be  the 
imaginings  of  a  morbid  conscience,  rendered  additionally 
sensitive  by  her  husband’s  death  following  so  soon  his  jeal¬ 
ous  outburst  against  her. 

Why,  she  had  declared  that  she  had  considered  herself 
his  murderer,  which  was  preposterous,  there  being  prob¬ 
ably  as  much  foundation  to  one  as  the  other. 

But  the  other  matter  was  a  different  thing ;  it  behooved 
him  to  lose  no  time  in  looking  after  his  interests  as  well  as 
hers,  for  her  interests  were  his;  also,  the  time  was  ap¬ 
proaching  when  she  must  and  would  acknowledge  it  to  be 
so. 

It  being  a  pleasant  daj  ,  Antonelli  walked  up  from  the 
station,  finding  Mrs.  Graham  and  Geraldine  in  the  sitting- 
room,  whose  open  doors  and  windows  brought  him  very 
clearly  into  view  as  he  stepped  upon  the  porch. 

As  he  had  given  no  notice  of  his  coming,  it  was  “a  pleas- 


166 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


ant  surprise,”  to  use  Mrs.  Graham’s  words  as  she  came 
forward  to  receive  him. 

If  there  was  any  surprise  in  Geraldine’s  face,  Antonelli 
looked  vainly  for  any  reflection  of  the  pleasure  that  spark¬ 
led  in  his  own  eyes  as  he  greeted  her. 

“You  did  not  expect  to  see  me  again  so  soon?” 

“No.”  - 

“But  I  am  welcome,  nevertheless?”  responded  Antonelli, 
with  the  winning  smile  that  Geraldine  had  once  found  so 
irresistible,  but  which  now  recalled  so  many  painful  rec¬ 
ollections  that  her  tone  and  manner  were  still  more  chilling 
as  she  said:  , 

“Mrs.  Graham  has  already  assured  you  of  this,  whose 
welcome  to  Riverview  is  of  more  importance  than  mine.” 

“But  not  to  me,  not  to  me/”  said  Antonelli  in  an  eager 
whisper,  which  only  reached  the  ear  for  which  it  was  in¬ 
tended.  . 

At  this  moment  Dr.  Graham  entered,  and  taking  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  greetings  which  followed,  Geraldine  slipped  out 
of  the  room,  nor  did  Antonelli  see  her  again  until  the  next 
morning. 

He  no  longer  took  any  pains  to  conceal  his  interest  in 
her  from  his  host  and  hostess ;  he  was  greatly  encouraged 
in  this  course  by  Mrs.  Graham’s  evident  sympathy  with 
him  and  desire  for  his  success — her  husband  being  more 
practical,  not  being  disposed  to  commit  himself  either  way. 

“  It  would  be  just  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  Geral¬ 
dine,  don't  you  think  so,  Francis?”  said  Mrs.  Graham  in 
one  of  their  private  conferences. 

“That  depends.  It  might  be  the  very  worst.” 

“  I  don’t  see  how  you  can  say  that,  when  he  is  so  de¬ 
voted,  and  would  make  her  such  a  kind  husband,  just  ex¬ 
actly  what  she  needs.” 

“But  supposing  she  has  a  husband  somewhere?” 

“Oh,  Francis,  I  don’t  think  that.  She  as  good  as  told 
me  she  was  a  widow.” 

“We  know  very  little  about  her  anyway,  far  too  little 
to  be  able  to  judge  in  a  matter  of  so  much  importance.  I 
suppose  that  Mr.  Antonelli  is  aware  how  and  in  what  way 
she  came  to  us?” 

“  Oh,  yes;  I’ve  told  him  over  and  over  again.  He  asks 
me  so  many  questions,  and  seems  so  interested  in  all  that 
concerns  her.” 

“  He  is  more  interested  in  her  than  she  is  in  him,  I  should 
say.” 

“True.  I  sometimes  think  she  almost  dislikes  him.  I 
don’t  see  why.  He  is  very  handsome  and  agreeable.  Don’t 
you  think  so?” 

“He  is  certainly  handsome  after  a  certain  style,  and 


A  WIPE'S  CHIME. 


i  m 

appears  to  have  the  manners  and  instincts  of  a  gentleman, 
Most  ladies  would  consider  him  very  agreeable,  I  dare  say. ” 

“  I  really  wish  you  would  speak  out,  Francis* ”  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  a  little  pettishly,  “and  if  you  dislike  the  man, 
say  so.” 

“  But  I  don’t,  my  dear.  Why  should  I?  He  Seefns  to  me 
like  a  man  of  no  great  depth  or  strength  of  character,  one 
who  would  be  shaped  very  much,  either  for  good  or  evil, 
by  his  feelings  and  surroundings.  Still,  I  may  do  him  in¬ 
justice  in  this  respect.  It  does  not  speak  very  highly, 
however,  for  his  good  sense,  that  he  should  be  so  ready  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  of  whom  he  not  only  knows 
nothing,  but  to  whom  his  attentions  are  so  distasteful. 
But  people  are  not  noted,  I  believe,  for  having  a  super¬ 
abundance  of  that  article  when  under  the  dominion  of  what 
is  termed  the  tender  passion.  I  don’t  think  that  I  was  my¬ 
self,  and  though  I  am  fain  to  confess  that  I  drew  a  prize  in 
the  lottery,  where  there  are  said  to  be  so  many  blanks,  I’m 
afraid  that  it  was  more  by  good  luck  than  any  wit  or  wis¬ 
dom  of  mine.  I  am  sorry  to  pour  cold  water  on  your 
benevolent  design  of  enabling  Geraldine  to  make  this  young 
man  as  happy  as  you  have  made  me,  but  I  think  we  had 
both  better  remain  neutral  in  this  case,  giving  neither  let 
nor  hinderance  to  either  party.” 

Like  most  women  happily  married  and  of  a  benevolent 
turn  of  mind,  Mrs.  Graham,  if  not  a  match-maker  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word,  was  fond  of  helping  along  any  af¬ 
fair  of  the  sort  that  happened  to  be  in  progress;  but  she 
had  a  good  deal  of  respect  for  her  husband’s  judgment, 
and  so  contented  herself,  with  something  of  an  effort,  it 
must  be  confessed,  to  being  merely  an  eye  witness  to  the 
little  drama  that  was  being  enacted  beneath  her  roof. 

Geraldine  played  her  part  in  this— if  a  part  it  was— with 
no  little  skill  and  prudence. 

During  the  two  days  that  Antonelli  remained  at  River- 
view  he  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  conversing  with 
Geraldine,  and  without  appearing  to  avoid  him  or  treating 
him  with  any  apparent  discourtesy,  she  never  saw  him  ex¬ 
cept  in  the  presence  of  a  third  party. 

Determined  to  re  win  Geraldine’s  affections,  he  bore  this 
with  all  the  patience  he  could  muster,  but  he  chafed  in¬ 
wardly  under  the  restriction  that  it  laid  upon  him,  his  dis¬ 
satisfaction  sometimes  being  visible  in  his  countenance. 

Whenever  Geraldine  was  down  stairs  she  kept  as  close 
as  possible  to  Mrs.  Graham,  who,  influenced  by  her  hus¬ 
band’s  caution,  and  perhaps  by  Geraldine’s  evident  un¬ 
willingness  to  be  left  alone,  paid  no  heed  to  the  appealing 
looks  and  hints  of  her  guest. 

If  Antonelli  went  into  the  school-room,  as  he  occasionally 


168 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


did,  hoping  to  have  an  opportunity  for  a  little  private  talk, 
he  invariably  found  Bob  there. 

At  last,  he  began  to  entertain  a  feeling  of  personal  dis¬ 
like  to  the  lad,  whose  boyish  devotion  to  Geraldine  was  a 
source  of  annoyance  and  inconvenience,  and  who,  whether 
wittingly  or  unwittingly,  was  such  a  valuable  auxiliary  to 
her  in  the  desperate  effort  she  was  making  to  defer,  at 
least,  the  issue  that  she  well  knew  must  sooner  or  later  be 
met,  whatever  it  might  bring. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  Antoneili’s  stay  at  Riverview,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  confess,  to  his  visible  chagrin  and  mor¬ 
tification,  that  he  was  no  nearer  to  the  goal  of  his  hopes 
than  when  he  came. 

Determined  that  he  would  not  leave  without  a  thorough 
understanding,  he  resolved  to  cut,  with  one  bold  stroke, 
the  knot  that  he  had  vainly  endeavored  to  untie. 

He  had  been  watching  Geraldine  for  the  space  of  ten 
minutes  or  more,  who  was  seated  at  the  further  end  of  the 
room,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Graham,  Lionel,  and  Isabel, 
the  latter  playing  at  her  feet. 

Never  had  she  looked  so  lovely,  or  seemed  so  far  away 
from  him  as  now. 

Walking  up  to  her,  he  said: 

I  leave  in  a  few  hours  for  New  York,  and  have  some¬ 
thing  to  say  to  you  before  1  go.  Will  you  take  a  walk  with 
me  down  by  the  river?” 

Geraldine’s  only  response  to  this  was  to  tie  on  the  hat 
that  was  lying  on  the  lounge. 

Mrs.  Graham  looked  at  her  a  little  curiously  as  she  did 

so. 

There  was  no  conscious  flush  to  the  cheek ;  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  it  was  a  shade  paler,  while  there  was  that  hunted 
look  in  her  eyes  seen  in  those  of  certain  animals,  whose 
only  safety  is  in  flight,  and  who  see  every  way  of  escape 
closed  to  them. 

But,  however  puzzled  Mrs.  Graham  might  be  to  account 
for  the  expression  on  Geraldine’s  face,  she  was  at  no  loss 
to  understand  the  look  in  Antonelli’s  eyes  as  they  rested 
upon  it. 

“  He  means  to  speak  to  her,”  she  thought. 

Then  going  to  the  window,  she  watched  the  two  as  they 
moved  down  the  winding  path  that  led  to  the  river. 

A  What  a  handsome-looking  couple,”  was  her  inward 
reflection.  It’s  easy  to  see  that  he  worships  the  very 
ground  she  walks  on,  but  she  don’t  act  as  if  she  cared 
two  straws  for  him.” 

Here  Mrs.  Graham  shook  her  head,  with  an  air  of  regret 
that  bad  in  it  something  of  disapproval. 

They  had  been  gone  nearly  two  hours,  and  some  surprise 


A  WIPE’S  CRIME . 


160 

began  to  mingle  with  her  anxiety  for  their  appearance, 
when  she  saw  Geraldine  coming  up  the  path  alone. 

“Dear  me!”  was  her  involuntary  exclamation  as  soon  as 
she  entered  the  door.  “What  have  you  done  with  Mr.  An- 
tonelli?” 

“Nothing,”  responded  Geraldine,  the  faint  smile  that 
came  to  her  lip  giving  her  face  a  strange  expression,  so  out 
of  keeping  was  it  with  the  disturbed  look  it  wore.  “He 
wanted  to  take  the  next  train,  and  having  only  just  time 
to  do  so,  commissioned  me  to  give  his  adieus  and  apolo¬ 
gies.” 

“She  has  refused  him,”  thought  Mrs.  Graham,  as  she  list¬ 
ened  to  Geraldine’s  retreating  footsteps  as  she  ascended  the 
stairs  to  her  own  room.  “  But  he  doesn’t  look  to  me  like  a 
man  that  would  be  easily  discouraged  in  an  affair  of  this 
kind,  and  I’ve  known  women  to  refuse  men  more  than 
once,  and  marry  them  after  all.” 

As  Geraldine  looked  upon  Lionel,  who  came  bounding  to 
meet  her,  a  yearning  desire  came  over  her  to  take  him  and 
Isabel  and  flee. 

But  this  was  quickly  repressed  by  the  thought  of  the  in¬ 
jury  it  would  do  to  the  boy’s  future  prospects. 

“By  my  own  folly  I  have  forfeited  a  mother’s  claims  to 
him,”  she  thought;  “if  the  sorrow  that  I  so  greatly  fear 
must  come,  I  will  meet  it  bravely,  and  here.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

MR.  SMITH’S  COUNSEL. 

Antonelli  returned  to  his  duties  in  a  very  strange  and 
unequal  frame  of  mind. 

Wounded  in  his  vanity  as  well  as  heart,  there  were  times 
when  he  was  on  the  point  of  telling  Mr.  Smith  of  the  rela¬ 
tion  that  Geraldine  sustained  to  his  ward,  and  then  a  feel¬ 
ing  of  pity  for  the  woman  whose  love — now  a  thing  of  the 
past — had  cost  her  so  dear,  deterred  him. 

At  the  early  part  of  their  acquaintance,  while  he  was  still 
suffering  from  the  effect  of  the  wound  that  had  nearly 
caused  his  death,  he  had  made,  in  some  degree,  a  confidant 
of  his  employer  in  regard  to  the  circumstances  that  pre¬ 
ceded  it,  of  course  suppressing  all  names. 

Would  it  tend  to  his  advantage  to  make  a  still  further 
revelation? 

At  all  events,  he  would  make  some  inquiries  concerning 
his  knowledge  of  Lionel’s  father. 

Since  his  discovery  of  Geraldine,  it  had  often  been  on  his 
mind  to  do  this,  but  Mr.  Smith  was  not  a  man  that  it  was 
easy  to  question. 

His  inquiries  concerning  his  ward,  soon  after  his  return 


HO  A  WIFE'S  CRIME, 

from  Riverview,  opened  the  door  to  this,  and  he  strode 
boldJy  in. 

“I  beg  pardon,  but  I  think  you  told  me  that  Master 
Lionel’s  father  was  an  old  friend  of  yours?” 

“I  told  you  that  he  was  an  old  acquaintance;  it’s  hard 
telling  who  are  our  friends.  I  knew  my  ward’s  father 
when  we  were  boys — in  fact,  ever  since  I  can  remember.” 

“You  knew  his  mother,  too,  I  suppose?” 

“  I  never  knew  his  mother  at  all.” 

“  Is  she  dead?” 

“Yes.” 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  which  Mr.  Smith  broke 
by  saying: 

‘  ‘  I  repeat  it ;  while  I  was  as  intimately  acquainted  with 
my  ward’s  father  as  any  man  well  could  be,  his  mother  I 
never  knew.  I  confess  that  there  is  a  mystery  connected 
with  her  loss,  which  must  remain  such  as"  far  as  I  am  con¬ 
cerned.” 

A  little  uneasy  at  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking, 
Anton elli  hastened  to  say: 

“  I  have  no  wish  to  pry  into  it,  believe  me.” 

Mr.  Smith  looked  attentively  at  the  speaker. 

“You  seem  to  be  in  the  mood  for  asking  questions. 
Doubtless  the  interest  you  evince  in  Lionel  springs  from 
the  still  deeper  one  that  you  take  in  his  charming  gov¬ 
erness?” 

Antonelli  colored. 

“  It  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it,  I  acknowledge.  ” 

Then  a  few  moments  after: 

“  Mr.  Smith,  I  believe  that  you  take  an  interest  in  me. 
Why  you  should  do  so  I  don’t  know,  except  it  is  from  pure 
goodness  of  heart.” 

“  I  certainly  do  take  an  interest  in  you,  Mr.  Antonelli, 
though  I  cannot  say  that  it  springs  from  any  goodness  of 
heart.” 

“  I  believe,  also,  that  if  I  was  in  any  difficulty,  you  would 
help  me  out  of  it,  if  you  could?” 

Mr.  Smith  took  such  a  long  time  to  reply  that  the 
speaker  looked  a  little  anxiously  at  those  grave,  but  kindly 
eyes. 

“  You  may  count  on  that,  too.  Though  in  order  that  I 
may  do  this,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  be  frank  with 
me.” 

“  That  is  what  I  mean  to  do,  as  far  as  I  can  be.  Do  you 
remember  my  telling  you  that  I  was  betrothed  to  a  lady 
who  was  induced  to  marry  another  man,  under  the  suppo¬ 
sition  that  I  was  dead?” 

‘  I  remember  you  telling  me  something  of  the  kind,  i# 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  J  7t 

explaining  the  wound  you  received,  and  which  you  sup^ 
posed  came  from  the  hand  of  her  husband.” 

“  I  did  not  see  the  man  who  stabbed  me,  still  I  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  it  to  be  so;  now  I  know  it.  Not  that  I 
blame  him  any ;  I  should  probably  have  done  the  same 
thing,  had  I  believed  as  he  did.  Now  that  he  is  dead,  I  am 
willing  to  believe  that  he  may  have  been  quite  as  much 
wronged  in  the  matter  as  I  was.” 

“You  can  hardly  look  upon  his  death  in  the  light  of  a 
misfortune,  though?” 

“  I  cannot  say  that  it  has  brought  me  any  good  fortune 
as  yet.  I  have  made  a  strange  discovery  lately.  I  can 
mention  no  names,  but  this  man’s  wife,  or  widow  rather, 
the  woman  that  I  love,  whom  I  love  now  more  madly  than 
ever,  is  your  ward’s  governess.” 

Drawing  his  own  inference  from  the  silence  that  fol¬ 
lowed  this  announcement,  Antonelli  continued : 

“  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  surprised,  sir.  You  can 
judge  something  of  what  my  feelings  must  have  been  at 
this  discovery.” 

“Joy  must  have  been  largely  in  excess  of  surprise,  I 
should  say.  As  to  this  lady,  kow  glad  she  must  have  been 
to  find  you  living!” 

“  She  was  glad,  certainly,”  said  Antonelli,  a  tinge  of  bit¬ 
terness  in  his  tone  that  he  made  no  effort  to  repress;  “  but 
it  was  less,  I  believe,  to  find  me  living  than  to  learn  that 
her  husband’s  hand  was  not  stained  with  blood.” 

Mr.  Smith  turned  his  partly-averted  face  toward  the 
speaker. 

“  Are  you  sure  of  that?” 

“  I  have  had  the  repeated  assurance  of  it  from  her  own 
lips.” 

“  If  she  is  a  mother,  that  is  very  natural.  However  that 
may  be,  your  course  is  plain.  You  were  not  only  pledged 
to  each  other  before  she  met  her  husband,  but,  by  your 
own  confession,  you  have  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
upon  her  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  And  now  that  she  is  not 
only  free,  but  all  alone  in  the  world,  she  has  the  best  of  all 
claims  to  your  love  and  protection.” 

“God  knows  how  willingly  I  would  give  them  to  her  if  she 
would  let  me.  Never  was  she  half  so  lovely,  half  so  dear 
to  me  as  now.  Her  coldness,  her  careful  avoidance  of  me, 
almost  drives  me  wild !” 

“  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  refuses  your  love?” 

“I  mean  to  say  that  all  my  efforts  to  re-establish  our 
former  relations  have  been  w  ithout  the  slightest  avail.  She 
seems  to  view  with  horror  the  least  allusion  to  them.” 

“That  is  very  strange.  How  do  you  account  for  it?” 

X  can’t  account  for  it,  She  acknowledges  the  love  that 


172 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


%  ■  :■  ry  if vyr*  f 

she  once  had  for  me,  but  savs  that  the  death  of  her  hus¬ 
band  killed  it.”  , 

“  One  would  suppose  that  it  would  have  the  contrary  ef¬ 
fect,  seeing  that  it  leaves  her  free.” 

“  One  would  suppose  so,”  said  Antonelli,  gloomily.  “  Bjit 
who  can  fathom  the  ways  of  woman,  or  say  what  she  will 
or  won’t  do?” 

“  You  consider  her  fickle,  then;  that  her  strange  conduct 
is  due  to  want  of  stability  of  character?” 

“No,  sir,  I  don’t;  I  can’t  say  that.  I  never  thought  her 
fickle,  and  she  seems  to  have  more  stability  of  character 
than  before.  It  looks  more  like  some  radical  change  in 
her;  and  that  is  the  discouraging  part  of  it.” 

“  I  think  you  are  too  easily  discouraged.  I  have  no  right 
to  inquire  into  what  she  evidently  wishes  to  keep  con¬ 
cealed,  but  it  is  clear,  from  her  friendless  and  lonely  posi¬ 
tion,  that  she  has  passed  through  a  great  deal  of  sorrow. 
It  would  not  be  at  all  strange,  especially  taking  into  con¬ 
sideration  her  long  and  serious  illness,  if  it  resulted  in  a 
somewhat  morbid  and  unhealthy  state  of  mind,  and  which 
will  pass  away  after  a  time.” 

“I’ve  thought  of  that,  sir,”  said  Antonelli,  his  face 
brightening  a  little.  “  She  talks  so  wildly  at  times  that  it 
seems  as  if  her  mind  couldn’t  be  altogether  right;  accusing 
herself  of  what,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  she  should  be  guilty  of.  Why,  it  will  surprise  you  to 
learn  that  she  even  goes  so  far  as  to  accuse  herself  of  being 
instrumental  to  her  husband’s  death!” 

Mr.  Smith’s  face  did  not  express  the  surprise  that  the 
speaker  evidently  expected,  but  then  it  rarely  indicated 
emotion  of  any  kind. 

“  I  ha  ve  seen  too  much  of  the  dark  side  to  human  nature 
to  be  easily  surprised,”  he  said,  after  a  moment’s  thought. 
“History  teaches  us  that  women,  with  hands  as  soft  and 
white  as  hers,  have  done  terrible  things.” 

“  Oh!  but  if  you  knew  Geraldine  you  would  not  could 
not  think  such  a  terrible  thing  as  that !  She  has  at,  gentle 
and  tendei*  a  heart  as  ever  beat.” 

As  Mr.  Smith  looked  upon  the  speaker,  the  grave,  almost 
stern  face  softened  to  as  near  an  -approach  to  a  smile  as 
ever  rested  there. 

“  She  has  a  warm  advocate  in  you,  I  see.  It  is,  at  least, 
safe  to  suppose  that  you  know  her  heart  better  than  any 
one.” 

Antonelli’s  face  gloomed. 

“  I  used  to  think  so ;  but  she  has  shut  me  out  of  her  heart 
now.” 

“Oh!  that  is  only  fop  a  time;  you  will  win  your  way 
back  again, 51 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME.  173 

14 1  wish  it  might  be  so.  However  that  may  bo,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  give  you  any  cause  to  think  ill  of  her.” 

“  You  have  given  me  no  reason  to  think  ill  of  her.  Nor 
do  I  think  that  you  will  ever  regret  having  confided  in 
me.” 

“I  have  my  own  theory  in  regard  to  her  wild  and 
strange  accusations  in  regard  to  the  death  of  her  hus¬ 
band  ” 

“What  is  it?” 

“  When  I  first  heard  of  her  marriage,  and  the  treachery 
that  had  been  practiced  against  us  both,  I  wrote  her — I 
hardly  know  what,  I  was  nearly  wild  with  grief  and  de¬ 
spair.  She  was  as  nearly  frantic  as  I,  replying  by  a  letter 
full  of  affection  for  me  and  detestation  of  her  husband, 
whom  she  considered  at  the  time  to  be  a  party  to  the  plot 
to  separate  us.  This  letter  being  about  me  when  I  was 
stabbed,  unfortunately  fell  into  her  husband's  hands. 
Whatever  this  man’s  faults  might  have  been — I  suppose  he 
had  faults,  like  all  the  rest  of  us — he  was  passionately  at¬ 
tached  to  his  wife,  and  the  reading  of  it  must  have  been  a 
great  shock  to  him.  It  is  hardly  to  be  credited,  however, 
that  it  was  sufficient  to  cause  his  death;  but  it  following 
soon  after,  his  wife  must  have  thought  so,  bringing  the  re¬ 
morseful  sorrow  that  makes  her  consider  herself  his  mur¬ 
derer.  Doesn’t  it  look  to  you  as  if  it  might  be  so?” 

Antonelli  was  so  intent  upon  building  up  his  theory,  that 
he  moved  a  step  nearer  to  the  desk  at  which  Mr.  Smith  was 
sitting,  and  upon  whose  face  his  eyes  now  turned  for  sym¬ 
pathy  and  encouragement. 

4  4  It  looks  very  much  as  if  it  might  be  so.  There  are  things 
that  kill  quite  as  effectually  as  poison  or  the  dagger.” 

Antonelli  looked  puzzled  and  disappointed. 

“  But  I  don’t  say  that  he  was  killed  at  all;  only  that  she 
might  think  so.  He  might  have  died,  anyway.” 

“  True  enough.  But  he  is  dead,  it  seems,  which  is  the 
most  important  thing — to  you.  His  widow  is  young  and 
beautiful.  She  will,  doubtless,  marry  again;  and  why  not 
you  as  well  as  another?” 

“  Then  you  counsel  me  to  persevere?” 

“  I  don ‘t  counsel  the  persecution  of  any  woman.  In  a 
matter  that  concerns  her  own  happiness  so  largely,  she 
ought  to  be  left  entirely  free.  By  your  own  showing,  the 
fact  that  she  was  not  left  free  has  been  fruitful  of  sorrow, 
and  not  to  her  only.  Still  I  would  not  act  hastily  in  the 
matter.  For  her  sake,  as  well  as  your  own,  I  would  make 
sure  that  she  thoroughly  understands  herself  ;  that  her  re¬ 
fusal  to  become  your  wife  does  not  spring  from  any  mor¬ 
bid  desire  to  make  atonement  to  the  dead,  and  which  she 
will  be  very  likely  to  regret  whoa  her  mind  is  in  a  more 


174 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME: 


healthy  condition.  If  she  is  acting  freely,  only  one  course 
is  open  to  you ;  but  it  looks  very  much  to  me  as  if  she  wag 
refusing  you  from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty.” 

The  eager  sparkle  in  Antonelli’s  eyes  showed  that  re¬ 
newed  hope  was  springing  up  in  his  heart. 

“  What  you  say  sounds  very  reasonable,  sir;  but  as  she 
absolutely  refuses  to  have  any  further  talk  with  me  on  the 
subject,  I  don’t  see  how  I  am  to  ascertain  this.  What 
would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place?” 

“  I  would  write  her  a  plain,  dispassionate  letter,  asking 
her  to  reply  to  you  in  the  same  way.  I  would  set  before 
her  clearly  my  love  and  my  claims,  stating  that  if  her 
feelings  are  so  entirely  altered  as  she  says,  that  you  will 
annoy  her  no  further;  but  if  she  really  does  love  you,  as 
you  are  fain  to  hope  is  the  case,  that  she  has  no  right  to 
make  the  living  wretched  for  the  sake  of  some  real  or 
fancied  wrong  to  the  dead,  and  who  would  probably  be  the 
last  to  ask  or  desire  any  such  sacrifice  of  her.  It  is  impos¬ 
sible  for  me  to  say  what  I  should  do  if  I  were  in  your 
place,  but  this  is  the  course  I  think  I  should  take.” 

“  I  will  write  her  this  very  day.” 

Mr.  Smith  now  directed  his  attention  to  the  papers  on 
his  desk,  and  taking  this  as  the  signal  for  his  dismissal, 
Antonelli  made  a  movement  to  withdraw,  when  he  was 
arrested  by  these  words: 

“  One  thing  more.  You  say  that  this  man  believed  his 
wife  to  be  faithless  to  him.  Had  this  any  foundation  in 
fact?  You  need  not  answer  unless  you  choose.” 

“Not  the  slightest.  Considering  her  marriage  as  no 
marriage  I  urged  her  to  flee  with  me,  but  she  would  not. 
Several  letters  passed  between  us,  but  she  granted  me  only 
three  interviews,  the  last  one  being  to  tell  me  that  we  must 
never  meet  again.  I  trust,  sir,  in  justice  to  this  most  un¬ 
fortunate  lady,  that  you  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
this.” 

The  thought  of  how  Mr.  Smith’s  judgment  of  her  might 
affect  Geraldine,  especially  as  to  her  boy,  gave  a  good  deal 
of  earnestness  and  feeling  to  Antonelli’s  tone  and  manner 
as  he  uttered  these  words. 

Mr.  Smith  was  evidently  touched ;  there  being  an  un¬ 
wonted  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  said : 

“  I  not  only  believe,  but  thank  you.  That  is  all.” 

\ 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE  NEW  GIRL. 

Mrs,  Graham  entered  the  school-room  all  equipped  for 
One  of  the  long  rides  that  she  was  so  fond  of  taking. 

4‘  I  am  going  up  to  Haven  Rock,  and  shall  not  be  back 


1 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  175 

before  tea.  I  leave  you  and  Bob  to  keep  house.  The  new 
girl  is  coming  on  the  next  train.  I  wish  you  would  see 
that  Pat  doesn’t  forget  to  meet  her.  I  told  him  about  it, 
but  I  suppose  he’ll  forget  it,  if  he  can.  And  be  sure  and  go 
to  the  post-office.  I  do  hope  that  this  one  will  be  better 
than  the  last.  She  can't  be  much  worse,  that’s  certain. 
She  comes  well  recommended  from  one  of  the  doctor’s  old 
patients,  whose  family  is  going  to  Europe.  If  she  is  all  he 
says  she  is,  she’ll  be  sure  to  get  home-sick  and  want  to  go 
back  to  the  city.  That  is  my  experience  with  all  that  are 
worth  keeping.” 

The  difficulty  of  getting  steady,  reliable  help  was  a 
standing  grievance  with  Mrs.  Graham,  occasioning  her,  as 
is  often  the  case  in  such  matters,  genuine  pleasure  to  dilate 
upon. 

Geraldine  raised  her  eyes  from  the  lesson  that  she  was 
explaining  to  Bob,  who  was  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
knowing  the  speaker  too  well  to  consider  it  necessary  to  do 
more  than  smile  an  assent  to  all  this. 

As  soon  as  the  lessons  were  over,  she  sent  Bob  to  remind 
Pat,  the  hired  man,  to  go  to  the  station,  but  found  that  he 
had  already  gone. 

Ever  thoughtful  in  regard  to  all  that  concerned  the  com¬ 
fort  of  his  liege  lady,  when  Bob  returned  with  this  message 
he  looked  wistfully  into  the  face,  whose  wearied  aspect 
was  caused  by  the  anxious  thoughts  that  she  vainly  en¬ 
deavored  to  banish  from  her  mind. 

“  I’ll  take  Lionel  and  baby  out  into  the  garden.  Shall  I, 
ma’am?” 

“  If  you  will,  Robert,  I  shall  be  glad.  I  have  a  little 
headache;  and  they  will  enjoy  being  out  in  the  open  air,  I 
dare  say.” 

Taking  a  new  magazine  from  the  library  table,  Geral¬ 
dine  took  a  seat  in  the  deep  recess  of  one  of  the  bay- 
windows,  and  endeavored  to  interest  herself  in  its  con¬ 
tents. 

Finding  this  to  be  a  hopeless  task,  with  a  weary  sigh  she 
let  it  fall  upon  her  knee. 

Her  eyes  wandered  around  the  quiet  room,  with  its  pleas¬ 
ant  appointments,  then  out  of  the  window  upon  the 
beautiful  prospect  that  extended  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach. 

There  floated  up  to  her  from  the  garden  beneath  the  glee¬ 
ful  sound  of  childish  voices,  the  sweetest  of  all  music  to  a 
mother’s  ear. 

What  a  safe  and  pleasant  haven  this  had  been  to  her 
from  the  fierce  tempest  that  had  made  a  wreck  of  every 
other  refuge ! 

Blow  long  would  it  be  open  to  her? 


178  A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 

How  long  would  she  be  able  to  keep  secret  the  terrible 
crime,  whose  revelation  would  make  her  again  a  homeless 
wanderer,  with  the  mark  of  Cain  upon  her  forehead*  even 
if  she  escaped  the  penalty  of  a  shameful  death? 

And  her  kind  friends  and  protectors,  whose  love  and  con¬ 
fidence,  manifested  in  so  many  ways,  had  become  so  dear, 
with  what  horror  and  loathing  would  they  shrink  away 
from  her  if  they  knew  what  might  come  to  their  knowl¬ 
edge  at  any  moment ! 

She  knew  that  Antonelli  had  left  her  in  a  state  of  mind 
that  would  make  him  reckless  as  to  what  he  did  or  said, 
but  she  knew,  also,  that  his  anger  was  as  short-lived  as  it 
was  hot  and  hasty ;  that  if  his  resentment  had  time  to  cool, 
his  naturally  kind  heart  would  prevent  a  merciless  use  of 
the  power  he  possessed. 

So  her  heart  was  divided  between  hope  and  fear,  a  state 
of  mind  which  made  her  watch  eagerly  for  news,  especially 
from  one  quarter,  anxious,  and  yet  afraid  to  hear. 

Hearing  the  sound  of  wheels,  she  looked  out.  It  was 
Pat,  with  the  new  girl,  who,  before  the  man  could  offer  his 
assistance,  jumped  out  of  the  wagon  to  the  ground,  disap¬ 
pearing  from  view  behind  some  trees  and  shrubbery. 

Presently  Bob  came  running  in  to  her  with  a  letter. 

She  recognized  the  hand  at  once,  observing  that  it  was 
thicker  than  the  usually  brief  missives  that  had  reached 
her  from  the  same  quarter,  and  surmising  that  it  was  not 
from  Mr.  Smith,  but  from  his  secretary,  dismissed  her 
messenger  before  breaking  the  seal. 

Its  contents  were  as  follows: 

“  Dear  Geraldine, — I  ask  you  to  hear  patiently  the  last 
appeal  that  I  shall  ever  make  to  you.  Nor  would  I  trouble 
you  with  this  were  I  sure  that  you  thoroughly  understood 
yourself  or  what  you  were  doing. 

“You  solemnly  pledged  yourself  to  me.  Through  no 
fault  of  mine  or  yours,  but  in  consequence  of  false  and 
treacherous  misrepresentations,  you  were  induced  to  marry 
another  man. 

“  Hard  as  it  was  to  give  you  up,  I  accepted  as  final  your 
decision  that  we  were  to  be  ns  strangers,  nor  can  you  say 
that  I  have  made  any  efforts,  during  your  husband’s  life, 
to  induce  you  to  change  it. 

“  But  now  that  he  is  dead,  you  are  free. 

“  You  say  that  your  feelings  have  entirely  changed,  than 
you  love  me  no  longer,  but  you  mingle  so  much  that  is 
improbable  in  this  assurance,  make  so  many  strange  allu¬ 
sions,  that  I  cannot  but  believe  that  you  are  influenced  by 
a  morbid  feeling,  occasioned  by  dwelling  too  much  upon 
the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of  the  past,  and  from  which  I 
yyould  so  gladly  shield  you  in  the  future. 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


Ill 


“  Even  though  you  rejected  my  suit,  as  you  have  an  urn 
doubted  right  to  do,  why  you  should  regard  with  such  a 
feeling  of  horror  the  slightest  allusion  to  my  love,  or  our 
possible  marriage,  is  something  that  I  cannot  understand, 
except  that  it  springs  from  the  strange  delusion  that  it 
would  be  a  wrong  to  the  dead. 

‘  *  In  spite  of  your  discouraging  words,  the  hope  is  strong 
within  me  that  down  deep  in  your  heart  your  love  for  me 
still  lives — that  we  shall  both  yet  be  as  happy  in  each 
other’s  love  as  we  have  been  in  the  past. 

“  My  dear  Geraldine — how  dear,  words  are  powerless  to 
tell  you — I  entreat  that  you  will  not  make  a  shipwreck  of 
my  happiness,  as  well  as  yours,  through  a  mistaken  idea 
of  making  reparation  for  some  error  in  the  past. 

“  I  don’t  see  how  it  could  be,  but  even  if  your  husband’s 
death  was  occasioned  by  his  unfortunate  discovery  of  our 
meeting,  and  all  that  followed,  I  cannot  believe  that  he 
would  wish  you  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  your  whole  life  as 
an  atonement,  nor  can  I  understand  what  good  it  is  going 
to  do  him,  or  any  one. 

“  I  ask  you  to  weigh  the  matter  well,  and  write  me.  Re¬ 
member  that  your  answer  will  be  final,  and  that  it  will 
bring  me  great  joy  or  great  sorrow. 

“  I  have  made  a  confidant  of  Mr.  Smith,  so  far  as  my 
love  for  you  and  our  past  relations  are  concerned,  and  he 
fully  approves  my  suit,  promising  me  a  responsible  position 
abroad,  with  double  the  salary  I  am  having  now. 

“  This,  by  removing  us  from  the  scene  of  so  many  pain¬ 
ful  recollections,  will  be  a  pleasant  change  to  us  both. 

“Your  children  shall  be  mine,  and  no  home  happier 
than  ours.  Lovingly,  Antonio  Antonelli.” 

Geraldine  read  this  letter,  from  the  first  to  the  conclud¬ 
ing  line,  and  then,  thrusting  it  into  her  pocket,  arose,  with 
the  intention  of  going  to  her  own  room. 

As  she  approached  the  partly-open  door,  she  saw  a  sturdy 
form  upon  the  threshold,  whiie  a  voice  that  sounded  start¬ 
lingly  familiar,  said : 

“  If  ye  plase,  ma’am,  I’m  the  new  girl — Bridget  Connor’s 
me  name.  Will  ye  tell  me — — ” 

As  the  speaker  obtained  a  clearer  view  of  Geraldine,  she 
stopped,  staring  wildly  into  her  face. 

“  The  saints  be  good  to  us!”  she  ejaculated  in  a  tone  of 
delighted  surprise,  “  an’  is  it  yersilf,  ma’am?  Niver  did  I 
think  to  look  upon  yer  swate  face  again!” 

Geraldine  was  not  long  in  recognizing  the  broad, 
rosy  face  of  the  speaker,  or  all  the  complications  to  which 
her  unexpected  advent  wrould  be  likely  to  give  rise. 

“  Come  in  and  close  the  door,  Bridget,”  she  said,  in  as 
calm  and  steady  a  tone  as  she  could  command. 


178 


A  WIFE'S  GRIME, 

The  girl  obeyed ;  and  as  soon  as  her  rather  incoherent 
expressions  of  joy  and  surprise  would  allow  her,  Geraldine 
continued :  - 

“  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  too,  Bridget,  or  rather,  I  should 
be  if  I  were  not  afraid  that  it  might  bring  upon  me  a  great 
misfortune.” 

“  How  cud  that  be,  ma’am?”  said  the  girl  in  a  tone  of 
surprise.  “Sure,  an’  you  can’t  think  that  I’d  do  ye  the 
laste  bit  of  harrum?” 

“  You  wouldn’t  mean  to,  and  yet  you  might  do  so,  all 
the  same.  No  one  knows  me  here  by  the  name  I  had  when 
you  knew  me,  or  where  I  came  from.  If  it  should  get  out 
it  might  result  in  my  being  taken  back  there ;  you  wouldn’t 
wish  to  do  anything  to  cause  that?” 

“  The  saints  presarve  us!  indade,  an’  I  wudn’t,  ma'am. 
Niver  a  word  will  I  spake  that  wud  give  thim  the  laste 
idea  that  iver  I  set  eyes  on  ye  ontil  now.  Glory  be  to 
God!  an’  so  ye  got  away  all  right?  Mony's  the  time  I’ve 
thought  of  ye  sence  the  day  I  seen  ye  floatin’  down  the 
river  in  that  shell  of  a  boat,  that  didn’t  look  as  if  it  cud 
bear  a  haporth  more  without  goin’  to  the  bottom.  The 
man  that  brung  me  from  the  deppo  was  tillin’  me  of  a  lady, 
that  was  governess  here,  bein’  fished  up  out  of  the  river, 
but  I  niver  dramed  it  was  you.” 

As  much  confidence  as  Geraldine  had  reason  to  place  in 
Bridget,  she  was  no  way  inclined  to  tell  her  all  that  had 
intervened  since  then. 

‘  ‘  My  good  girl,  your  faithfulness  in  the  past  gives  me 
every  reason  to  trust  you.  You  had  better  go  now ;  it  will 
be  considered  strange  if  you  stay  any  longer.  Remember 
that  my  name  is  now  Mrs.  Geraldine.  ” 

Bridget  looked  back  from  the  door,  through  which  she 
disappeared  a  moment  later. 

“  I  won’t  forgit.  Don’t  ye  be  afther  havin’  the  laste  fear, 
ma’am.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

AN  UNWELCOME  REPLY. 

After  sending  the  letter  given  to  the  reader  in  the  pre¬ 
ceding  chapter,  Antonelli  waited  with  an  eager  impatience 
that  made  the  hours  seem  like  days  to  him,  for  a  response. 

Hope  being  a  strong  element  in  his  character,  it  was 
largely  in  excess  of  his  fears,  especially  when  he  pondered 
on  the  encouragement  that  he  had  received  from  Mr. 
Smith. 

Not  that  he  was  so  foolish  ns  to  suppose  that  the  result 
would  put  him  at  once  on  toe  footing  of  an  accepted  suitor, 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


179 


but  be  felt  that  it  would,  by  softening  her  feelings  and  re¬ 
establishing  something  of  their  former  intimacy,  pave  the 
way  to  that  happy  event. 

It  was  one  of  Ms  duties  to  receive  and  take  charge  of 
all  letters,  ami  he  now  watched  all  that  cam  with  an  in¬ 
terest  that  he  had  n-ver  felt  bef  ore:  his  heart  Mating  fast 
as  he  saw.  one  morning,  tnat  well  remem her  d  hand. 

Contrary  to  ^is  usual  custom,  instead  oi  pacing  through 
his  own  room  to  that  of  his  employer,  he  paused  tnere, 
tearing  the  letter  open  with  eager  anu  trem.  ling  nands. 

Let  us  look  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  re<±ds. 

14  Aktosio, — I  had  hoped  that  you  would  spare  yourself 
the  pain  of  t  lis  ;  ppeaL  and  me  the  hard  and  sorrowful  task 

of  replying  to  it. 

"  I  told  you.  at  our  last  interview,  that  the  shock  of  my 
husband  s  death  killed  my  love  for  you;  it  did  more — it 
aroused  a  remorseful  tenderness  that  has  gr  dually  changed 
my  whole  ttitude  toward  him.  making  it  impossible  for 
me  to  give  to  any  other  the  place  where  he  is  enshrined  in 
my  heart.  ^ 

”  hot  long  after  his  death  I  came  across  my  husband's 
diary,  which  he  had  kept  ever  since  our  first  meeting,  and 
it  contained  snch  a  revelation,  not  only  of  his  inherent 
worth  and  goodness,  and  the  love  and  devotion  that  met 
with  so  cold  a  return,  but  of  my  own  folly  and  blindness, 
that  it  created  an  entire  revolution  in  my  feelings. 

"You  say  that  my  husband  is  dead — but  he  lives  in  my 
heart,  he  will  live  there  ahcays. 

"I  was  the  cause  of  his  death — it  matters  not  how — and 
I  have  made  a  solemn  vow  to  devote  myself  entirely  to  his 
children,  so  far  as  I  am  permitted  to  do  so. 

"  I  dreamed  once  that  he  came  to  me,  rend  put  tine  our 
baby  in  my  arms — the  child  that  in  his  jealous  fury  he  re¬ 
pudiated — kissed  us  bot  h. 

"Since  then  my  heart  has  been  less  heavy  and  sor 

row  fill. 

"Remaining  faithful  to  hi  memory  through  all  the 
years  of  my  earthly  pilgrimage,  I  hope  some  day  to  meet 
him.  and  receive  his  kiss  of  forgiveness  and  love. 

"  There  is  no  morbid  feeling  in  this.  Antonio,  but  a  deep- 
seated  conviction  that  it  is  the  path  of  duty,  which  can 
alone  lead  to  peace. 

*  *  By  consenting  fo  a  marriage  without  love.  I  made  a 
shipwreck  of  my  husband's  happiness  as  well  as  my  own. 
and  shall  I  now  do  you  the  same  wrong; 

"  I  ask  you  not  only  to  leave  me  to  the  life  that  I  have 
marked  out  tor  myself,  but  to  help  me  to  live  it. 

"  Tnat  you  may  be  happy  with  the  love  of  some  better 


180 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


and  happier  woman  is  the  earnest  wish  of  one,  who,  though 
she  can  never  be  more  to  you,  would  gladly  remain  always 

“  Your  friend  and  sister, 

“  Geraldine.” 

How  long  Antonelli  remained  pondering  over  this  un¬ 
welcome  missive  he  could  not  have  told  had  he  tried,  but  he 
was  aroused  from  the  train  of  reflections  to  which  it  gave 
rise  by  the  impatient  jingle  of  the  bell  over  his  desk,  and 
which  communicated  with  that  of  his  employer  in  the  ad¬ 
joining  room. 

Taking  the  letter  he  had  received,  together  with  some 
others  that  came  with  it,  and  which  were  directed  to  Mr. 
Smith,  he  passed  into  the  room  where  that  gentleman  had 
for  some  time  been  impatiently  expecting  his  appearance. 

“  I  trust  that  you  will  excuse  this  long  delay,  sir.  I  have 
been  reading  this  letter.  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Geraldine,  as  you 
advised  me  to  do,  and  this  is  her  reply.  You  have  taken 
so  much  kindly  interest  in  the  affair  that  I  can  do  no  less 
than  give  it  to  you  for  perusal.” 

Mr.  Smith  looked  at  the  disturbed  fafce  of  the  speaker, 
his  own  scarcely  less  agitated,  and  then  taking  the  letter 
signed  him  to  leave  the  room. 

An  hour  dragged  its  slow  length  along,  and  Antonelli  sat 
at  his  desk  in  the  same  dejected  attitude  that  he  had  oc¬ 
cupied  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes. 

Feeling  a  light  touch  upon  his  shoulder  he  glanced  up, 
being  not  a  little  startled  at  seeing  his  employer,  who  was 
standing:  just  back  of  him,  and  who  had  never  entered  his 
room  before. 

“  Mr.  Antonelli,  this  is  a  heavy  disappointment  to  you. 
That  you  should  consider  it  in  the  light  of  a  great  mis¬ 
fortune  is  very  natural ;  but  it  would  be  a  much  greater 
one  for  you  to  marry  a  wom^n  who  had  no  love  for  you.” 

“  But  she  loved  me  once,”  was  the  bitter  response. 
“  And  never  did  I  love  her  so  passionately,  so  madly  as 
now !  It  is  very  hard  to  give  her  up;  especially  so  to  have 
it  occasioned  by  such  a  strange,  incomprehensible  devotion 
to  a  man  who  needs  her  love  no  longer.” 

“  It  may  not  be  so  strange  as  you  think,”  said  Mr.  Smith, 
resuming  something  of  his  old  caustic  tone  and  manner, 
“  though  I  dare  say  that  it  is  incomprehensible.” 

Then,  his  eye  softening  as  it  rested  upon  the  gloomy 
face  of  his  companion,  he  continued  in  quite  another 
tone : 

“  X"ou  certainly  ought  to  respect  the  motives  that  govern 
her.  She  would  be  doing  you  a  great  wrong  to  marry  you, 
feeling  as  she  does.  So  cheer  up  and  be  glad  that  it  is  no 
worte.” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME.  181 

Antonelli  was  in  no  mood  to  be  “cheered  up  ”  in  so  short 
a  time  as  this. 

He  shook  his  head  disconsolately. 

“It’s  easy  talking,  sir;  especially  when  it’s  something 
you’ve  had  no  experience  in.  I  don’t  suppose  that  you 
were  ever  seriously  in  love  with  any  woman  in  your  life.” 

Coloring,  Mr.  Smith  looked  keenly  at  the  speaker,  whose 
countenance  showed  that  he  was  entirely  absorbed  by  his 
own  pain  and  disappointment. 

“  That  is  as  it  may  be,”  he  said,  dryly. 

Antonelli  continued : 

“  My  whole  life  is  a  blank;  I  shall  never  know  what  it 
is  to  have  a  happy  day  again.” 

As  disposed  as  Mr.  Smith  was  to  sympathize  with  his  sec¬ 
retary,  he  actually  smiled  at  this  speech,  something  that 
Antonelli  had  never  seen  him  do  before;  its  transforming 
influence  giving  his  face  such  a  different  expression  that  it 
hardly  seemed  the  same. 

But  it  vanished  almost  as  quickly  as  it  came. 

“Nonsense!  Young,  with  good  health  and  bright  pros¬ 
pects,  you  have  any  number  of  happy  days  before  you. 
Before  you  met  her,  this  last  time,  you  were  not  unhappy ; 
on  the  contrary,  you  seemed  to  get  a  good  deal  of  enjoy¬ 
ment  out  of  life.  Under  the  favoring  influences  of  new 
scenes  and  a  change  of  occupation,  a  year  hence  you  will 
have  forgotten  all  about  it.  You  will  remember  what  I 
promised  to  do,  in  case  you  married  this  lady?  That  oppor¬ 
tunity  is  still  open  to  you.  If  I  remember  rightly,  you 
were  born  in  Italy,  having  relatives  there?” 

“Yes,  sir.  I  was  a  mere  boy  when  I  left,  but  I  remem¬ 
ber  my  native  country  well.” 

“So  I  recollect  hearing  you  say.  Also,  that  you  had  a 
strong  desire  to  revisit  it.  Now,  it  is  in  my  power  to  offer 
you  a  position  at  one  of  the  principal  ports  there,  to  attend 
to  the  consignment  of  fruit,  wine,  etc.,  to  a  wholesale  house 
in  this  city.  The  salary  will  be  liberal  and  the  duties 
neither  hard  nor  unpleasant.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to 
this  offer?” 

“That  I  should  like  nothing  better.” 

“  If  you  accept,  you  will  have  to  leave  within  a  week.” 

“I  shall  be  ready  at  any  time,”  exclaimed  Antonelli, 
rising  to  his  feet;  “  the  sooner  the  better.” 

“You  will  have  ample  time  to  get  your  outfit.  I  think 
you  have  decided  wisely.  Of  course,  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
lose  my  secretary,  but  it  is  the  best  course  for  you  to  take 
under  the  circumstances,  as  well  as  for  all  concerned.” 

“I  don’t  think  that  you  will  find  it  hard  to  supply  my 
place,”  said  Antonelli,  after  a  moment’s  thought;  “I  don’t 
feel  that  I  have  earned  half  what  you’ve  paid  me.  In  factfi 


i&3 


A  WIFE'S  CHIME. 


I  have  sometimes  thought  that  you  kept  me  more  for  my 
sake  than  your  own.” 

“You  are  wrong;  you  have  been  useful  to  mein  more 
ways  than  one,  earning  all  that  I  have  paid  you.” 

“I  am  glad  to  know  that.  Ever  since  our  first  meeting, 
in  that  old  farm-house  by  the  river,  you  have  manifested 
a  kindly  interest  in  me  that  I  had  no  right  to  expect  from 
a  stranger.  I  feel  it  very  sensibly,  especially  this  last 
proof  of  it,  as  it  will  enable  me  to  put  into  execution  what 
I  have  long  wished  to  do.” 

Antonelli  was  very  busy  for  the  next  few  days  in  get¬ 
ting  his  outfit,  and  receiving  instructions  from  his  new 
employer  in  regard  to  the  duties  that  would  be  required  of 
him  in  the  new  position  he  would  fill ;  all  the  bustle  and 
excitement  consequent  upon  this  complete  change  in  his 
life  having  a  most  happy  effect  upon  him,  by  rousing  him 
from  his  gloom  and  despondency,  and  turning  his  thoughts 
into  different  channels. 

“I  have  everything  in  readiness,  now,”  he  said,  one 
morning,  to  Mr.  Smith.  “It  is  now  Monday,  and  as  the 
vessel  will  not  sail  till  to-morrow  evening,  I  think  I  will 
run  up  to  Biverview.” 

Antonelli  said  this  in  a  hesitating,  inquiring  tone,  as  if  a 
little  doubtful  as  to  how  it  would  be  received. 

“  Do  you  think  that  would  be  a  wise  thing  to  do?” 

“  It  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  me;  and  I  don’t  know  as 
there  would  be  any  harm  in  it.  You  object,  I  see?” 

“  I  have  no  right  to  object;  nor  have  I,  personally,  any 
objection  to  offer,”  said  Mr.  Smith.  “I  am  only  question¬ 
ing  its  wisdom  as  to  yourself,  as  well  as  the  lady,  whom,  I 
inter,  you  are  going  to  see.” 

Then,  after  a  moment’s  thought,  and  in  a  graver  tone : 

“I  trust  that  you  have  no  intention  of  annoying  this  lady 
by  reopening  a  question  in  regard  to  which  she  has  ex¬ 
pressed  herself  so  clearly  and  decidedly?  Her  friendless 
and  unprotected  position  ought  to  make  her  doubly  sacred 
against  anything  that  looks  like  persecution,  as  this  most 
assuredly  would.” 

“Believe  me,  sir,  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
doing  this.  On  the  eve  of  leaving  the  country,  perhaps 
never  to  return,  I  merely  wish  to  bid  her  farewell  in  per¬ 
son,  instead  of  by  letter,  as  I  first  thought  of  doing.  Not  a 
word  will  pass  my  lips  that  could  possibly  give  her  the 
least  annoyance.” 

Mr.  Smith  was  so  long  in  replying,  that  Antonelli  turned, 
an  impatient  look  upon  his  face. 

“  You  consider,  perhaps,  that  a  parting  interview  would 
be  satisfactory  to  both?” 

“  I  think  so.  It  would  be  to  me,  I  know,” 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME . 


183 


There  was  another  pause,  almost  as  long  as  the  first. 

“  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  you 
to  do  as  you  propose.  Tell  Mrs.  Geraldine,  that  as  soon  as 
you  are  gone,  I  am  coming  to  see  her.” 

Antonelli  had  moved  toward  the  door;  he  now  turned 
back.  ; 

“Mr.  Smith,  I  trust  that  you  are  contemplating  no  change 
in  your  arrangements  for  your  ward ;  in  short,  that  his 
present  governess  will  continue  to  take  charge  of  him?” 

“  She  is  fond  of  the  boy,  then?” 

“Very  fond.  I  think  that  it  would  break  her  heart  to 
part  with  him.” 

“  Most  mothers  are  attached  to  their  children,  I  believe.” 

Changing  color,  Antonelli  looked  at  the  speaker,  thinking 
that  his  ears  must  have  deceived  him. 

“Mr.  Smith!” 

Without  appearing  to  notice  the  speaker’s  astonishment 
and  dismay,  Mr.  Smith  continued : 

“I  have  known  for  several  months,  ever  since  he  has 
been  under  her  care,  in  fact,  the  true  relation  that  this  lady 
sustains  to  Lionel.” 

“  I — you  amaze  me,  sir.  And  to  think  that  she  should 
be  so  afraid  of  your  finding  it  out !” 

“Am  I  so  hard  a  man,  that  she  should  stand  in  so  much 
fear  of  me?” 

There  was  something  in  the  tone,  even  more  than  the 
words,  that  touched  the  warm,  impulsive  heart  of  the 
listener. 

“No,  indeed;  I  have  not  found  you  so,  at  all  events. 
But  then,  you  see,  she  does  not  know  you.” 

“True.  It  may  be  said,  in  excuse  for  many  misun¬ 
derstandings,  that  she  has  never  really  known  me,  or  *1 
her.” 

Somewhat  mystified  by  these  words,  and  which  seemed 
to  be  spoken  to  himself  rather  than  to  him,  Antonelli  was 
silent  for  a  moment. 

Then  he  said : 

“  Have  I  your  permission  to  tell  her  this?” 

“Yes;  I  think  that  it  is  best  now  that  she  should  know 


it. 


“And  may  I  tell  her  also,  that  you  will  make  no  change 
in  regard  to  the  boy?” 

“You  may  say  that  I  am  coming  to  talk  matters  over 
with  her.  Now,  unless  you  hurry,  you  will  miss  the 
boat.  Remember  that  y  ou  must  be  back  to-morrow  with¬ 
out  fail,” 


134 


A  WIFE’S  GRIME. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Antonelli’s  sudden  arrival  at  River  view  was  quite  as 
unexpected  to  its  occupants  as  his  previous  appearance. 

Lionel  was  the  first  to  spy  him,  as  he  came  up  the  walk. 

“There’s  Mr.  Tony  !”  he  shouted,  running  down  to  meet 
him  in  glad  anticipation  of  the  toys  and  sweetmeats  of 
which  he  was  generally  the  bearer. 

Geraldine,  who  was  sitting  by  the  window,  half  arose, 
and  then,  conscious  tl  at  she  had  been  seen,  resumed  her 
seat,  her  changing  color  alone  showing  her  secret  agitation 
and  disturbance. 

Antonelii  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Graham,  who,  mind¬ 
ful  of  her  duties  as  hostess,  came  forward  to  greet  him, 

“  You  hardly  expected  to  see  me  so  soon,  Mrs.  Graham; 
but  I  leave  the  country  to-morrow  evening  for  an  indefi¬ 
nite  period,  and  thought  that  I  would  pay  a  farewell  visit  to 
my  friends  at  Riverview.  ” 

“  I  am  very  glad  you  did.  Going  to  leave  the  country, 
did  you  say?  Is  not  that  a  very  sudden  thing?” 

“  Rather  so.  I  certainly  had  no  thought  of  going  a  week 
ago,  though  it  is  something  that  I  have  long  desired  to  do. 
Knowing  this,  Mr.  Smith  has  kindly  placed  at  my  disposal 
a  pleasant  and  lucrative  position  in  one  of  the  ports  of  my 
native  country,  and  which  I  was  only  too  glad  to  accept.” 

Antonelii  glanced  at  Geraldine  as  he  said  this,  who  was 
listening  with  eager  attention. 

Then,  observing  Lionel’s  wistful  looks,  he  added,  with  a 
smile:  , 

“  I  didn’t  bring  you  anything  this  time,  Master  Lionel; 
I. came  away  in  too  great  a  hurry.  But  your  guardian  is 
coming  to  Riverview  before  long,  and  he’ll  pnake  amends, 
I  dare  say.” 

“Is  Mr.  Smith  really  coming?”  cried  Mrs.  Graham. 
“  How  glad  I  am!  I  was  telling  Francis,  only  yesterday, 
that  I  did  hope  he  would  come  before  the  season  was  over; 
everything  looks  so  much  pleasanter  in  the  summer.  He 
has  been  confined  in  the  city  so  many  months  that  a  trip 
to  the  country  will  do  him  good.” 

It  being  near  tea-time,  excusing  herself,  Mrs.  Graham 
now  went  out,  leaving  the  two  together. 

“  Is  what  you  told  Mrs.  Graham  really  so?”  said  Geral¬ 
dine,  glancing  a  little  timidly  at  the  face  that  wore  such  a 
different  aspect  when  she  saw  it  last. 

“  That  I  am  going  to  leave  the  country?  It  certainly  is. 
Something  that  you  are  not  at  all  sorry  to  hear,  I  suppose.” 

In  spite  of  Antonelli’s  good  resolutions,  he  found  it  im¬ 
possible  not  to  infuse  a  certain  amount  of  tender  reproach 
m  these  words. 


A  WIPE’S  CRIME. 


185 


Geraldine’s  face  flushed  a  little,  as  she  said: 

“  It  would  be  a  very  unfriendly  act  in  me  to  regret  what 
you  seem  to  consider  such  a  pleasant  and  desirable  open¬ 
ing.  I  didn’t  refer  to  that,  however,  but  to  what  you  said 
about  Lionel’s  guardian.  Is  he  really  coming  to  River- 
view?” 

“  That  is  what  he  told  me.  Come  down  into  the  garden 
with  me  a  few  minutes,  Geraldine.  Now,  that  I  am  on 
the  point  of  leaving  the  country,  you  surely  might  grant 
me  that  much.  Little  pitchers  have  large  ears,  you 
know,”  glancing  at  Lionel,  “  and  I  really  have  something 
of  importance  to  say  to  you.” 

Geraldine’s  only  response  to  this  was  to  rise  and  join 
him  by  the  half-open  door,  and  together  the  two  moved 
down  toward  the  arbor,  where  they  had  had  their  first  in¬ 
terview.  • ,  r  i  j. 

Geraldine’s  countenance  showed  no  little  anxiety  and 
agitation ;  her  words  indicated  plainly  the  direction  that 
her  thoughts  had  taken. 

“  Does  what  you  have  to  say  relate  to  Lionel?” 

“  It  does.  Mr.  Smith  knows  that  he  is  your  son.” 

Geraldine  turned  white  to  the  lips,  and  there  was  indig¬ 
nation  as  well  as  grief  in  her  tones,  as  she  said: 

“  You  have  told  him,  then?” 

“  I  have  not  told  him  a  word.” 

“  He  has  inferred  it  from  what  you  have  said,  at  all 
events.  And  this  is  your  boasted  honor;  dealing  a  back- 
handed  blow  to  the  woman  that  you  profess  to  love  above 
all  others!” 

The  anger  that  Antonelli  felt  at  these  stinging  words, 
especially  their  injustice,  vanished  as  he  saw  the  grief  and 
despair  in  the  pale  face  that  confronted  him. 

“You  wrong  me,  Geraldine,  as  you  cannot  fail  to  see 
when  I  tell  you  that  Mr.  Smith  knew  that  you  were  the 
mother  of  his  ward  at  the  time  he  sent  him  to  you ;  which 
was  certainly  before  /  had  any  idea  of  it.” 

“  Mr.  Smith  knew  that  I  was  Lionels  mother  before  he 
sent  him  to  me?”  repeated  Geraldine,  with  a  dazed,  be¬ 
wildered  air.  “  How  strange !” 

“  That  is  what  he  told  me ;  and  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
his  word.  When  Mr.  Smith  spoke  about  going  to  River- 
view,  I  referred  to  your  strong  affection  for  the  boy ;  ex¬ 
pressing  the  hope  that  he  would  remain  under  your  care. 
He  replied  by  saying  k  that  it  was  natural  for  a  mother  to 
love  her  child,  ’  or  words  to  that  effect ;  going  on  to  state 
what  I  have  already  told  you.  I  was  greatly  astonished. 
I  don’t  think  you  could  have  been  much  more  so,  as  it  was 
something  I  had  never  dreamed  of.  ” 

“Was  that  all?  Did  he  tell  you  nothing  more?” 


186 


A  WIFE 'S  CRIME. 


“  T  asked  him  if  I  was  to  tell  you  this.  He  said  yes,  that 
he  thought  it  was  best  that  you  should  know  it.” 

“Go  on,”  said  Geraldine,  in  a  stifled  voice,  evidently 
speaking  with  an  effort. 

“  I  asked  him  if  I  should  tell  you,  also,  that  there  would 
be  no  change  in  regard  to  the  boy.  He  said  that  I  was  to 
say  to  you  that  he  would  see  you  shortly  and  talk  matters 
over.” 

Geraldine  sank  down  upon  the  rustic  seat  by  which  she 
was  standing. 

“  To  talk  matters  over — ah,  me!  Did  he  say  whether  he 
intended  making  any  change  or  no?” 

‘  ‘  That  was  all  the  reply  he  made.  I  was  just  on  the  point 
of  leaving ;  there  was  no  time  for  many  words.” 

“But  if  he  knows  that  Lionel  is  my  son,  he  must  know 
also - ” 

Here  Geraldine  abruptly  paused. 

“  Antonio,”  she  added,  “answer  me  truly,  is  what  you 
have  told  me  all  that  passed  between  you?” 

“As  far  as  I  can  recollect,  it  is  certainly  all  that  passed 
between  us  of  any  moment.” 

*  ‘My  dear  Geraldine,”  added  Antonelli,  after  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  of  perplexed  silence,  “while  it  is  natural  that  you 
should  feel  some  anxiety  in  regard  to  Mr.  Smith’s  coming, 
I  can’t  understand  why  you  should  be  so  distressed  and 
frightened.  From  what  I  know  of  him— and  it  seems  as  if 
I  knew  him  better  the  last  few  weeks  than  any  time  be¬ 
fore— I  am  confident  that  he  will  not  be  so  unjust, and  cruel 
as  to  take  Lionel  from  you.  And  even  if  it  were  other¬ 
wise,  the  remedy  is  in  your  own  hands.  All  you  have  to 
do  is  to  appeal  to  the  law,  that  considers  a  mother  to  be  the 
natural  guardian  of  a  child  of  such  tender  years.” 

“The  law?”  said  Geraldine,  with  a  shudder.  “ God  help 
and  pity  me!  There  are  things  that  lie  back  of  this — 
things  that  I  can  speak  of  to  no  one.” 

Here  the  sound  of  a  bell  was  heard,  followed  by  the 
merry  voice  of  Lionel,  who  came  running  down  the  walk 
toward  them. 

“  There  is  the  tea-bell,”  added  Geraldine,  rising  to  her 
feet.  “  Go  on  before  me.  I  will  follow  in  a  few  moments.” 


•CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  FULFILLED  DREAM. 

Geraldine  did  not  see  Antonelli  again  until  the  next 
morning,  when  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

The  aversion  that  she  felt  for  him,  and  which  had  grown 
out  of  his  persistency  in  urging  a  suit  that  had  become 
hateful  to  her,  had  vanished  since  the  announcement  of  his 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME, 


U1 


departure,  especially  since  she  became  convinced  that  in- 
stead  of  betraying  her,  as  she  had  at  first  thought,  he  had 
done  all  he  could  to  save  her  from  the  difficulties  and  perils 
that  were  thickening  around  her. 

This  gave  an  added  warmth  and  gentleness  to  her  very 
look  and  manner,  and  which  made  her  very  charming  to 
Antonelli’s  beauty-loving  nature,  as  his  eyes,  as  they 
rested  upon  her  lovely  face,  testified. 

The  two  were  standing  out  upon  the  porch  together, 
whither  Antonelli  had  gone  to  wait  for  the  carriage. 

“tI  hope  you  are  not  blaming  me  for  anything?”  he 
said. 

“  No;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  that  I  owe  you  many 
thanks  for  your  efforts  to  defend  and  protect  me.  My 
best  and  warmest  wishes  will  accompany  you  to  the  new 
life  to  which  you  are  going.” 

“  I  wish  that  you  were  going  with  me,  Geraldine.” 

Geraldine  gently  removed  the  hand,  around  which  the 
speaker’s  closed  with  a  warm  pressure. 

“  It  is  better  as  it  is;  better  for  us  both.  You  will  some 
day  be  glad  that  it  is  so.” 

AntonelL  shook  his  head. 

“  It  doesn’t  seem  at  all  likely  to  me  now.” 

Then  a  moment  later: 

“What  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Smith?” 

The  unwonted  color  in  Geraldine’s  cheeks  receded  at 
these  words. 

“  *ay  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him.  That  I  hope  that 
he  will  not  keep  me  in  suspense,  but  come  soon.” 

Antonelli  noticed  the  change  in  Geraldine’s  look  and 
tone. 

“I  think  you  will  feel  better  after  seeing  him;  being 
quite  sure  that  it  will  be  the  means  of  relieving  your  mind 
of  the  doubts  and  fears  that  you  seem  to  entertain  con¬ 
cerning  him.” 

Pat  now  driving  up  with  the  carriage,  there  was  no  op¬ 
portunity  for  anything  more  than  the  general  adieus  that 
followed,  for  which  Geraldine  was  not  sorry. 

After  watching  the  carriage  disappear  down  the  avenue, 
she  went  to  her  own  room;  glad  that  this  ordeal  was  over, 
and  wishing  that  the  one  to  which  her  thoughts  now 
turned  with  such  dark  forebodings  was  as  happily  ended. 

She  had  vainly  tried  to  recall  some  old  acquaintance  of 
her  husband  by  the  name  of  Smith. 

She  remembered  hearing  him  speak  of  an  uncle  of  that 
name,  from  whom  he  had  been  named,  but  was  under  the 
impression  that  he  had  died  some  years  ago. 

This  Mr.  Smith  might  be  a  son;  his  telling  Antonelli 


388  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

that  he  had  known  her  husband  when  a  boy  gave  a  strong 
air  of  probability  to  this  inference. 

To  this  was  added  the  coincidence  of  the  initial  letters  of 
their  Christian  names  being  the  same. 

On  thinking  the  matter  over,  she  become  convinced 
that  Lionel’s  guardian  was  the  son  of  Uncle  Robert,  and, 
therefore,  her  husband’s  cousin. 

This  near'  relationship  gave  her  little  comfort,  however, 
in  looking  forward  to  their  approaching  interview,  and 
all  to  which  it  was  likely  to  lead. 

When  Geraldine  reached  her  room,  she  found  Bridget 
there,  putting  it  to  rights. 

She  was  the  same  honest,  outspoken  soul,  taking  the 
same  kindly  interest  in  her  former  mistress ;  in  her  sim¬ 
plicity  and  good-heartedness,  frequently  making  allu¬ 
sions,  when  they  were  by  themselves,  from  which  Geral¬ 
dine  would  gladly  have  been  spared. 

“An’  so  poor  Misther  Bayard  niver  came  back  at  all, 
at  all?” 

“No.” 

“  It’s  me  belafe  thim  murtherin’  thaves  av  the  world 
spirited  him  off.  They  ain’t  a  bit  too  good  for’t  ony way. 
Did  I  tell  ye,  ma'am,  that  I  once  thought  I  see  him?” 

“  Thought  that  you  saw  my  husband,  Bridget?  Where 
was  that?” 

“  ‘Twas  in  New  York,  at  the  Grand  Centhral  Deppo, 
ma'am.  I  was  goin’  in  the  dure,  when  I  run  against  a 
gintleman  that  was  jist  cornin’  out,  an’  who  looked  as 
much  like  him  as  one  pay  is  like  another. 

“‘The  Lord  be  praised!  is  that  you,  Misther  Bayard?’ 
says  I.  4  And  did  ye  find  yer  wife?’ 

“  He  looked  at  me  real  hard  for  a  minute. 

“  ‘  Bayard  isn’t  me  name,’  says  he,  ‘an’  I  haven’t  ony 
wife.  ’ 

“  I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  whin  he  said  this. 

“  ‘I  beg  pardon,’  says  I;  ‘I  thought  it  wor  the  husband 
av  a  lady  I  used  to  work  for.’ 

“  ‘  There’s  no  harm  done,’  says  he. 

“  With  that  he  walks  off,  lavin’  me  a-starin’  afther  him 
till  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd.” 

“  It  is  only  a  curious  coincidence,”  said  Geraldine. 

“A  what?”  said  Bridget,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

“  A  chance  resemblance,  such  as  we  sometimes  see  be¬ 
tween  people  in  no  way  related.  I  never  expect  to  see  my 
husband  again  in  this  life.” 

Here  Bridget  was  summoned  below. 

Geraldini*  sighed  heavily  as  she  listened  to  the  sound  of 
the  dosing  door 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME .  189 

How  vain  were  all  her  efforts  to  win  forgetfulness  and 
peace! 

In  how  many  different  ways  was  she  reminded  of  the 
sin  that  would  not  be  covered,  staring  her  in  the  face  at 
every  turn? 

“  Mr.  Smith  writes  Francis  that  he  will  be  here  on  the 
midday  train,”  said  Mrs.  Graham  to  Geraldine,  the  follow¬ 
ing  morning. 

Not  all  Geraldine’s  efforts  at  self-control  could  prevent 
the  sudden  paling  of  her  cheek  at  this  announcement. 

Mrs.  Graham  noticed  this,  and  being  now  accustomed  to 
what  she  considered  sprung  from  undue  Sensitiveness, 
said,  with  a  smile: 

“I  really  believe  that  you  are  afraid  of  Mr.  Smith  and 
dread  his  coming. 

“  I  don’t  see  how  you  can  with  such  a  convincing  proof 
of  your  success  and  capacity  as  this  before  you,”  she  added, 
glancing  at  Lionel.  “  I  declare !  I  should  hardly  know  the 
boy ;  he  looked  so  pale  and  spiritless  when  he  came,  and  is 
looking  now  so  healthy,  rosy  and  happy.” 

As  Geraldine  looked  at  the  kind  face,  which  was  so  ex¬ 
pressive  of  the  kindly  spirit  that  actuated  these  words,  a 
strong  impulse  came  over  her  to  ease  her  heart  of  the  heavy 
weight  that  oppressed  it,  by  forestalling  a  revelation  that 
she  now  felt  was  inevitable. 

Then  she  checked  herself.  For  the  sake  of  her  children, 
upon  whose  innocent  heads  it  would  bring  so  much  un¬ 
merited  shame,  it  must  be  done  by  other  lips  than  hers. 

“  I  hope  she  won’t  have  one  of  her  headaches,”  thought 
Mrs.  Graham,  as  Geraldine  left  the  room.  “  She  is  so  apt 
to,  if  anything  troubles  her,  especially  of  this  kind.  How 
strange,  when  she  shows  so  much  sense  in  every  other  way, 
she  should  have  so  little  in  this  respect.” 

Mrs.  Graham’s  fears  were  not  realized.  Geraldine  per¬ 
formed  her  usual  morning  duties ;  a  little  more  silent  and 
abstracted,  perhaps,  but  showing  no  indication  of  that 
much-dreaded  malady. 

Instead  of  sending  Pat,  Dr.  Graham  himself  went  to  the 
station  for  their  expected  guest,  dinner  being  delayed  an 
hour  in  honor  of  his  arrival. 

Geraldine  kept  herself  strictly  to  the  school-room,  trying 
to  busy  herself  with  the  accustomed  duties,  but  listening 
with  feverish  suspense  to  any  unusual  sounds. 

Nearly  two  hours  passed,  and  while  she  wondered  at  this 
delay,  Mrs.  Graham  entered. 

“I  don’t  think  we  will  wait  any  longer;  you  must  be 
faint.  I  don’t  see  wnat  has  detained  them.”  * 

‘‘Perhaps  the  train  was  late.” 


190  A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 

“  No;  it  can’t  be  that.  We  always  hear  it  at  one  point, 
and  I’m  sure  I  heard  it  at  the  usual  time.” 

Hearing  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels,  Mrs.  Graham 
turned  to  the  window. 

“  It’s  Francis,  and  he’s  alone,”  she  said,  hurrying  from 
the  room. 

Geraldine  lingered  a  few  minutes,  and  then  went  down 
to  the  dining-room,  but  there  was  no  one  there. 

On  stepping  out  upon  the  porch,  she  heard  the  sound  of 
Dr.  Graham’s  voice  in  the  library,  talking  to  his  wife. 

It  was  evident  that  their  guest  had  disappointed  them. 

Geraldine  was  disappointed  too ;  for  though  she  dreaded 
seeing  this  man,  she  knew  that  it  was  something  that  must 
be,  and  the  suspense  she  was  suffering  was  growing  more 
intolerable  every  day. 

Over  half  an  hour  passed ;  then  the  dinner-bell  sounding, 
Geraldine  re-entered  the  dining-room,  finding  Dr.  Graham 
and  his  wife  already  seated  at  the  table. 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  nothing  was  said  about  the 
non-appearance  of  Mr.  Smith,  nor  was  his  name  men¬ 
tioned. 

The  doctor  had  a  grave,  preoccupied  air,  while  his  wife 
looked  nervous  and  excited  to  a  degree  that  not  only  sur¬ 
prised  Geraldine,  but  inspired  her  with  a  vague  feeling  of 
uneasiness. 

Mrs.  Graham  betrayed  more  than  usual  anxiety  that 
Geraldine  should  be  supplied  with  whatever  was  on  the 
table,  especially  that  she  should  drink  the  strong  cup  of 
coffee  that  she  prepared  with  her  own  hands,  but  aside 
from  the  conversation  incidental  to  this,  the  meal  was  dis¬ 
cussed  in  almost  total  silence. 

When  Dr.  Graham  rose  from  the  table,  Geraldine  vent¬ 
ured  to  say : 

“  You  didn’t  find  Mr.  Smith  at  the  depot?” 

The  doctor  cleared  his  throat  twice  before  he  spoke. 

“Yes,  he  was  there.  He  will  be  here  by  and  by.” 

Without  pausing  for  a  reply,  Dr.  Graham  left  the  room, 
going  directly  to  the  library,  whirher  his  wife  followed  him. 

With  feelings  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe, 
Geraldine  went  to  her  own  room. 

Dr.  Graham’s  long  absence,  his  wife’s  excited  and  dis¬ 
turbed  manner,  all  was  clear  to  her  now. 

He  and  Mr.  Smith  had  met ;  nor  could  she  doubt  the  nat¬ 
ure  and  result  of  this  conference. 

Concealment  was  no  longer  possible,  the  blow  had  fallen ; 
that  which  she  had  so  long  and  greatly  feared  had  come 
upon  her ;  and,  as  is  often  the  case,  she  found  it  less  terri¬ 
ble  than  she  had  anticipated. 

After  the  first  shock  had  passed  a  feeling  of  calmness 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME .  191 

came  over  her,  born  of  something  higher  and  nobler  than 
despair. 

There  was  One  before  whom  her  whole  life  lay  open,  who 
knew  the  wrong  teachings,  the  evil  influences  that  sur¬ 
rounded  her  early  years ;  how  earnestly  she  had  striven  to 
atone,  how  patiently  and  steadfastly  she  had  walked  in  the 
path  of  duty,  so  far  as  she  had  the  light  to  see  what  that 
path  was. 

However  she  might  humble  herself  to  God,  it  was  not  for 
her  to  shrink  before  the  gaze  of  her  brother  man,  who,  with 
the  same  ignorance,  under  the  same  circumstances,  might 
have  done  far  worse  than  she. 

Geraldine  heard,  like  one  in  a  dream,  the  sound  of  car¬ 
riage  wheels,  followed,  a  few  minutes  later,  by  a  summons 
to  the  library. 

Dr.  Graham  met  her  at  the  door,  conducting  her  to  a  seat 
opposite  his  own. 

His  disturbed  and  agitated  manner,  so  different  from 
anything  that  she  had  ever  seen  in  him  before,  had  the 
natural  effect  of  calming  her  own. 

“  I  thought  that  I  should  find  Mr.  Smith  here,”  she  said, 
glancing  around. 

“  He  is  in  the  house.  I  have  had  a  long  talk  with  him. 
He  desired  me  to  see  you  first,  and  prepare  you  somewhat 
for  what  he  feared  would  be  too  great  a  surprise.” 

“  I  beg  that  you  will  assure  this  gentleman  that  I  need 
no  preparation.  I  can  readily  understand  the  nature  of 
his  disclosures  concerning  me.  Nor  can  I  say  that  they 
are  not,  in  all  probability,  substantially  true.  It  is  you  that 
must  have  been  surprised.” 

“  I  was  surprised,  certainly,  and  so,  I  think,  will  you  be 
when  you  know  who  this  man  is.” 

“  I  know  that  he  is  my  son’s  guardian,  and  as  such  I 
wish  to  see  him.” 

“  He  is  more  than  that.” 

“  I  know  the  relation  that  he  sustains  to  both  my  chil¬ 
dren.” 

Dr.  Graham  turned  a  startled  look  upon  the  speaker’s 
face. 

Geraldine  continued. 

“  I  remember  hearing  their  father  speak  of  his  Uncle 
Bobert ;  I  believe  this  man  to  be  his  son.  ” 

It  was  some  moments  before  Dr.  Graham  spoke.  When 
he  did  it  was  slowly,  and  with  the  tair  of  one  choosing  his 
words  carefully  as  he  went  on. 

“Mrs.  Bayard — I  call  you  by  your  rightful  name,  you  see 
—you  are  laboring  under  a  grave  mistake.  As  a  physician, 
X  must  ask  you  to  iierve  yourself  to  meet  a  great  and  joy- 


192 


A  WIFE'S  CRIME. 


ful  surprise.  Lionel’s  guardian  sustains  to  your  children 
a  much  nearer  relation  than  this.” 

Geraldine  arose  to  her  feet. 

“You  are  talking  very  strangely,  Dr.  Graham.  I  have 
few  relations,  and  my  husband  had  fewer  still.” 

“You  say  that  your  husband  is  dead;  but  there  are 
cases  of  mistaken  identity  which  have  led  to  grave 


r> 


got 

the 

the 

the 


errors- 

The  window  by  which  Geraldine  stood  reached  to  the 
floor,  opening  out  upon  the  portico. 

As  Dr.  Graham  spoke  a  dusky  form  paused  beside  it. 

A  moment  later  a  dark  face  was  thrust  into  the  room, 
whose  gleaming  eyes  glared  at  Geraldine  with  a  look  or' 
fiendish  triumph. 

Another  moment,  and  it  stepped  through  the  window 
and  confronted  her. 

“  I’s  tracked  you  down  at  las’ !  I  allers  thought  you 
away,  an’  when  I  heeard  of  a  woman  bein’  found  in 
water,  I’s  sure  of  it.  You’ve  ’scaped  the  dungeon  an’ 
water,  but  you  won’t  ’scape  the  hangman’s  rope - ‘ 

Here  a  man,  who  had  entered  the  room  back  of 
speaker,  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

“Silence,  Prue!” 

Paying  no  heed  to  the  woman  who  cowered  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  in  a  mortal  terror  from  whose  effect  she  never 
fully  recovered,  Robert  Bayard  lifted  up  the  insensible  form 
that  was  lying  at  his  feet,  and  laid  it  upon  a  couch  in  an 
adjoining  room. 

“  Is  she  dead?”  he  cried,  as  he  bent  distractedly  over  it. 

“Oh,  no!”  said  Dr.  Graham,  who,  assisted  by  his  wife, 
was  busy  in  applying  restoratives.  “See !  the  color  is  com¬ 
ing  back  to  her  face  now.  Stand  back  a  little,  so  she  will 
not  see  you.” 

Opening  her  eyes,  Geraldine  looked  wildly  around. 

“  I  thought  I  saw 
was  it,  indeed,  he?” 


my  husband.  Oh!  tell  me,  doctor, 


At  this  moment  Lionel,  who  could  not  be  restrained  any 
longer,  sprung  forward. 

“ Oh!  mamma,  papa  has  got  back!  And  I’m  so  glad!” 

Taking  up  Isabel,  Mr.  Bayard  placed  her  in  her  mother’s 
arms. 

“Your  dream  has  come  true,”  he  whispered,  as,  putting 
his  arms  around  his  wife  and  child,  he  kissed  them  Doth. 

Feeling  that  it  was  a  scene  too  sacred  for  other  eyes  to 
witness,  Dr.  Graham  quietly  withdrew,  leaving  them  to- 


A  WIFE  ’ 3  CRIME. 


193 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

CONCLUSION. 

We  will  relate  briefly  to  the  reader  Robert  Bayard’s  ac* 
count  to  his  wife  of  his  almost  miraculous  restoration  to 
life,  and  final  escape  from  the  underground  cell  at  Hunter’s 
Lodge. 

The  loss  of  blood,  which  flowed  freely  from  the  wound  he 
had  received,  was,  under  God,  the  means  of  saving  his  life. 

For  several  hours  he  lay  like  one  dead ;  then  he  aroused 
sufficiently  to  realize  something  of  his  surroundings. 

It  was  very  brief,  however,  he  relapsing  immediately 
into  a  state  of  half-unconsciousness,  combined  with  a 
helplessness  which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  make  the 
slightest  sound. 

How  long  he  remained  in  this  state  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
but  probably  for  several  days. 

When  he  recovered  entire  consciousness,  so  as  to  remem¬ 
ber  clearly  all  that  had  happened,  he  was  weak  from  want 
of  food. 

On  groping  about,  his  hands  came  in  contact  with  the 
loaf  of  bread  and  pitcher  of  water  he  had  left  there  for  Ger¬ 
aldine,  of  which  he  partook  eagerly,  using  moderation  on 
account  of  his  long  fast. 

Having  regained  something  of  his  old  strength,  he  began 
to  devise  how  he  was  to  get  out  of  his  present  uncomfort¬ 
able  quarters. 

The  door  was  locked,  nor  was  there  any  possibility  of  his 
making  himself  heard  through  the  thick  walls  that  sur¬ 
rounded  him. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  one  of  the  heavy  stones 
that  formed  it  was  capable  of  being  moved  from  its  place 
by  means  of  a  secret  spring,  known  only  to  himself,  and 
which  he  had  discovered  one  day  by  the  merest  accident 
when  he  was  examining  the  place. 

But  even  then  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  it  would  be 
large  enough  to  admit  of  the  egress  of  a  person  of  his 
breadth  of  shoulders  and  chest,  but  it  was  his  only  chance, 
and  he  determined  to  try  it. 

On  trial,  he  found  that  the  aperture  thus  formed  would 
admit  him  with  ease. 

On  passing  through,  he  found  himself  in  a  narrow  pas¬ 
sage-way,  that  led  to  the  little  cave,  partly  natural  and 
partly  artificial,  which  opened  out  upon  the  river,  and 
which  is  already  familiar  to  the  reader. 

As  he  stood  looking  out  upon  the  water,  and  pondering 
on  what  he  should  do  to  get  across,  he  saw  something  float¬ 
ing  toward  him. 

On  closer  inspection,  he  $aw  that  it  wag  a  human  body. 


194 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME. 


The  advancing  tide  brought  it  so  near  to  him  that  by 
grasping  it  by  the  hair,  that  was  thick  and  curly,  he  was 
able  to  drag  it  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

On  finding  that  it  was  the  body  of  a  man  of  about  his 
own  age  and  size,  and  with  very  much  the  same  hair  and 
complexion,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  placing  his  own  cloth¬ 
ing  on  it  and  thus  inducing  his  wife  to  think  that  she  had 
accomplished  what  he,  at  that  time,  believed  to  be  the 
settled  purpose  of  her  heart,  rather  than  the  unreasoning 
and  frantic  impulse  that  he  was  led  to  consider  it  at  a  later 
day. 

Alter  thoroughly  drying  the  garments,  he  effected  the 
exchange.  Then  carrying  the  body  into  the  cell,  he  placed 
it  in  the  same  position  in  which  he  had  fallen,  and  passing 
back  into  the  passage-way,  moved  the  stone  back  into  its 
place. 

On  returning  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  he  encountered 
Bridget,  who  had  just  seen  her  mistress  off,  and  whose 
fright  at  his  unexpected  appearance  the  reader  will  re¬ 
member. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  swoon  into  which  the  girl  fell, 
he  secreted  himself  in  an  obscure  corner,  from  which  he 
observed  the  direction  she  took  in  the  rapid  flight  im¬ 
mediately  after  her  recovery. 

Following  this,  he  came  to  the  long  flight  of  stairs,  al¬ 
ready  described,  and  which  led  to  the  rooms  above. 

As  it  was  now  broad  daylight,  and  he  was  desirous  of 
leaving  the  house  unobserved,  he  decided  to  wait  until 
evening  before  he  attempted  to  mount  them. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dusk  he  crept  cautiously  up  to  the 
door,  which  was  in  the  same  condition  in  which  Bridget 
left  it  in  the  morning. 

After  listening  intently  to  see  if  he  could  hear  any 
sound,  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  in,  almost  as  much 
surprised  as  relieved  to  find  the  coast  clear. 

G-aspardo  and  Rattle  having  gone  in  pursuit  of  Geral¬ 
dine,  there  was  no  one  but  Prue  in  the  house,  who  generally 
kept  herself  to  her  especial  province  at  the  back  part  of  it ; 
so  there  was  no  one  to  observe  his  movements. 

Fortunately,  having  collected  a  large  amount  of  money 
lately,  he  had  it  about  him,  and  taking  some  articles  of 
clothing,  together  with  some  papers,  with  him,  he  passed 
out  through  an  unfrequented  part  of  the  house,  striking 
into  a  narrow  cross  path  which  led  by  the  quickest  possible 
route  to  the  highway. 

With  his  mind  full  of  the  purpose  which  had  taken  such 
strong  possession  of  him,  and  anxious  to  get  away  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  scene  of  so  many  painful  associations,  he 


A  WIFE ’S  CRIME . 


195 


took  his  way  down  the  river,  along  which  Geraldine  had 
passed,  all  unknown  to  him,  the  night  before. 

The  evening  being  clear  and  starlight,  he  had  no  difficulty 
in  finding  his  way. 

His  strong,  elastic  constitution  enabled  him  to  bear  up 
wonderfully  against  the  heavy  strain  upon  it. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  the  excitement  under  which  he  was 
laboring,  he  walked  along  briskly  for  some  time. 

But  at  last  his  strength  began  to  fail  him,  the  wound 
in  his  head  throbbed  and  burned,  an  occasional  dizziness 
coming  over  him  which  obliged  him  to  sit  down  by  the 
roadside. 

But  still  he  pushed  ahead,  having  made  considerable 
progress  by  the  dawn  of  day. 

Feeling  utterly  unable  to  continue  any  further  without 
rest  and  refreshment,  he  was  not  sorry  to  come  in  sight  of 
a  village  hotel. 

Mr.  Bayard’s  full  name  was  Robert  Smith  Bayard,  and 
firm  in  his  resolution  to  conceal  his  identity,  at  least  for 
the  present,  he  decided  to  transpose  it,  registering  himself 
as  R.  B.  Smith. 

By  noon  he  was  obliged  to  take  to  his  bed;  by  night,  to 
have  a  physician. 

He  was  attended  by  Dr.  Graham,  under  whose  care  he 
improved  so  rapidly  that  in  a  week’s  time  he  was  able  to 
be  removed  to  his  house. 

Much  of  what  followed  the  reader  already  knows. 

It  was  not  until  Mr.  Bayard  listened  to  Geraldine’s  wild 
ravings,  during  the  fever  that  followed  her  arrival  at 
Riverview,  that  he  knew  how  little  cause  there  was  for 
the  fierce  jealousy  that  had  turned  all  his  love  and  tender¬ 
ness  to  fury,  that  had  led  him  to  so  much  that  was  harsh 
and  unjust. 

!  It  was  not  until  then  that  he  fully  realized  the  extenu¬ 
ating  circumstances  attending  much  that  he  could  not  but 
condemn  in  his  wife’s  conduct,  or  understood  the  tem¬ 
porary  madness  that  impelled  her  to  an  act  so  foreign  to 
her  nature. 

But  all  the  remorse  and  newly-awakened  tenderness  that 
this  reaction  aroused  only  strengthened  his  determination 
to  allow  her  to  consider  herself  free. 

He  was  still  further  strengthened  in  his  resolution  by  his 
meeting  with  Antonelli,  and  all  that  he  told  him. 

It  was  then  that  he  conceived  the  idea  of  bringing  the 
two  together,  and  thus  insuring  their  happiness. 

Even  after  he  learned  of  the  hold  that  he  had  obtained 
on  his  wife’s  heart,  and  the  tenderness  in  which  she  held 
his  memory,  he  decided  upon  the  final  test  that  was  to 


196 


A  WIFE'S  GRIME . 


prove  to  him  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  her  love,  and  how 
far  he  could  build  upon  it  for  their  mutual  happiness. 

How  happily  this  test  ended,  the  reader  knows. 

We  will  sum  up  briefly  in  regard  to  the  rest  of  our  char' 
acters. 

Rattle  and  Petro  Gaspardo,  Geraldine’s  younger  brother, 
fled  the  country,  and  were  never  heard  of  again. 

Prue,  whose  mind  had  been  affected  for  some  months, 
never  recovered  from  the  shock  of  her  master’s  unexpected 
appearance,  and  which  she  supposed  to  be  his  disembodied 
spirit. 

In  memory  of  her  long  and  faithful  service.  Mr.  Bayard 
had  her  kindly  cared  for  at  a  private  asylum  until  she  died. 

Bridget  lives  with  Geraldine,  who  would  hardly  know 
how  to  dispense  with  her  honest  and  loyal  service. 

Antonelli  is  very  well  satisfied  and  prosperous  in  his 
new  home  and  position,  as  his  letters  to  Mr.  Bayard  tes¬ 
tify. 

He  is  not  likely  to  leave  them,  having  found  a  powerful 
magnet  in  the  form  of  one  of  the  fair  daughters  of  his 
native  land,  to  whom  he  is  happily  married. 

Bob,  good,  honest  Bob,  bids  fair  to  attain  to  the  promise, 
of  his  boyhood,  being  now  a  rising  young  lawyer  of  the 
Kings  County  bar;  and  better  still,  what  some  consider 
incompatible  with  that  calling,  an  honest  man. 

He  has  paid  the  mortgage  on  Uncle  John’s  farm,  who  has 
considerably  modified  his  opinion  of  the  benefit  of  what 
he  terms  “  book  lamin’.” 

He  is  a  man  of  few  words,  however,  merely  remarking 
to  a  neighbor  who  congratulated  him  on  his  nephew’s 
prospects : 

“Wife  allers  said  that  there  was  somethin’  more’n  com¬ 
mon  in  Bob,  an’  I  guess  she’s  in  the  rights  on’t.” 

Aunt  Jane  takes  a  good  deal  of  pride  in  her  nephew,  as 
she  has  an  undoubted  „  right  to  do,  who  never  forgets  all 
that  he  owes  to  her  love,  especially  her  unwavering  faith 
in  him.  ' 

Isabel,  “Bob’s  baby,”  and  to  whom  he  always  laid  an 
especial  claim  on  account  of  his  finding  her  in  the  woods, 
is  now  a  blooming  miss  of  thirteen,  inheriting  her  mother’s 
beauty  and  her  father’s  kind  heart. 

She  thinks  that  there  is  no  one  like  Robert,  while  she 
has  grown  dearer  to  his  heart  every  succeeding  year;  and 
if  that  should  come  to  pass,  which  may  in  the  years  that 
are  coming,  there  will  be  no  one  to  say  them  nay,  certainly 
not  Geraldine,  to  whom  he  is  almost  as  dear  as  an  own 
son  now. 

Not  caring  to  live  there  any  more,  Mr.  Bayard  has  sold 
Hunter’s  Lodge,  buying  a  much  more  pleasant  and  cheer- 


A  WIFE’S  CRIME . 


197 


fill  summer  residence  near  Riverview,  much  to  the  satis¬ 
faction  of  their  respective  occupants,  who  continued  to  be 
on  the  friendliest  of  terms. 

Since  their  happy  reunion,  two  more  children  have  been 
given  to  Geraldine  and  her  husband,  and  which  serve  to 
bind  their  hearts  more  closely  together. 

Profiting  by  the  painful  experience  of  the  past,  and  hav¬ 
ing  learned  the  great  lesson  of  mutual  forbearance  and 
mutual  trust,  each  year  enables  them  to  realize  more  per¬ 
fectly  what  marriage  should  be— a  union  of  hearts  as  well 
as  hands. 

And  here  we  leave  them. 


[THE  END.l 


A  FATAL  WOOING 


By  LAURA  JEAN  LIBBEY 


Copyrighted  by  NORMAN  L.  MUNRO,  1883. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  TERRIBLE  TOW. 

“Oh,  pilot,  ’tis  a  fearful  night;  there’s  danger  on  the  deep, 

I’ll  come  and  pace  the  deck  with  thee,  this  is  no  time  to  sleep.” 
“Go  down!”  the  sailor  cries.  “Go  down!  this  is  no  place  for 
thee, 

The  night  is  wild,  yet  wilder  far,  the  fury  of  the  sea.” 

It  is  midnight  on  the  ocean. 

The  great  silver  moon  breaks  through  the  white,  fleecy 
clouds,  flooding  the  dark,  rippling  waves  into  a  sheen  of 
sparkling,  silvery  brightness. 

A  land-bird  flutters  aloft,  weary  with  long  flying ;  lost  in 
a  world  where  there  are  no  forests,  but  the  tall,  careening 
masts  of  the  ships,  and  no  foliage  but  the  drifts  of  spray ; 
it  cleaves  awhile  to  the  smooth  spars,  till,  urged  by  some 
homeward  yearning,  it  bears  on  in  the  face  of  the  wind, 
sinking,  then  rising  over  the  angry  waters,  until  its 
strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves  gather  the  poor  flut- 
terer  to  their  cold,  glassy  bosom. 

Ulmont  TJlvesford  leans  his  arms  on  the  railing  of  the 
deck,  gazing  down  into  the  deep,  shimmering  water,  then 
up  at  the  clouds  overhead. 

“  By  this  time  the  following  week,”  he  told  himself,  “he 
should  reach  Boston.” 

How  little  the  handsome  young  heir  of  the  TJlvesford 
Silver  Mines  knew,  as  he  watched  the  moon  scudding  in 
the  blue  dome  above  him,  as  he  stood  there,  not  one  care 
on  his  proud,  noble  face,  ere  the  sun  should  pierce  the 
clouds  in  yonder  smiling  heavens,  the  whole  course  of  his 
life  would  be  changed. 

The  smile  on  his  face  deepened  as  he  thought  01  the 
great  event  which  was  to  happen  on  the  day  he  reached 

Boston. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 

steamer  had  been  due  on  the  day  previous,  but, 
mg  to  unaccountable  delay,  they  would  not  reach  port 
until  late  the  following  week* 

TJlmont  Ulvesford  passes  his  twenty-first  birthday  watch¬ 
ing  the  blue  waters  and  the  bluer  sky.  There  were  few 
young  men  that  could  boast  of  a  more  magnificent  inher¬ 
itance  than  that  to  which  the  young  heir  had  succeeded. 

The  Ulvesfords  were  a  proud,  haughty  race,  one  of  the 
oldest  and  noblest  in  Boston. 

Glendon  Ulvesford,  the  wealthy  owner  of  the  Ulvesford 
Silver  Mines,  had  died  two  years  before,  and  in  the  last 
words  he  uttered,  he  thanked  God  a  son  had  been  born  to 
him,  to  prolong  the  good  old  name. 

This  son  had  been  given  them  late  in  life,  and  upon  him 
they  had  lavished  all  of  their  worshipful  love;  no  wish  from 
his  infancy  up  had  ever  been  denied  him,  and  this  very 
over-indulgence,  which  never  sought  to  curb  the  fire  of  his 
impetuous,  willful  nature,  was  the  deep  root  from  which 
sprang  all  the  keenest  sorrows  he  experienced  in  his  after 
life.  Those  who  knew  him  best  trembled  for  his  future, 
and  wondered  how  it  would  all  end. 

He  was  finely  proportioned,  tall,  and  broad-shouldered, 
his  features  were  marked  and  fine,  the  white  brow,  over 
which  the  dark-brown  hair  waved,  was  broad  and  intel¬ 
lectual,  his  hazel  eyes  piercing  and  quick,  and  his  well-cut 
lip,  unadorned  by  mustache,  varying  with  every  chang¬ 
ing  feeling  or  momentary  emotion,  gave  by  the  peculiar 
bend  in  which  they  were  fastened  in  repose,  a  peculiar  tone 
of  scornful  playfulness  to  every  expression  of  his  coun¬ 
tenance, 

He  knew  the  elite  of  the  country  would  be  gathered  to¬ 
gether  to  bid  him  welcome ;  he  smiled  when  he  looked  down 
into  the  white,  seething  water,  thinking  of  the  moment 
he  should  clasp  pretty  Loraine  Lorrimer’s  little  white  hand 
in  greeting,  and  watch  the  flush  sweep  across  that  high¬ 
bred  face,  clear-cut  as  a  cameo.  On  the  day  he  reached 
Boston  he  was  to  claim  the  peerless  young  heiress  as  his 
bride.  There  could  be  no  question  as  to  the  suitability  of 
the  alliance,  both  were  of  wealthy  families,  young  and 
handsome,  they  we're  both  very  young,  yet  it  was  much 
better  for  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  thought  those  who  knew  him, 
that  he  should  marry  young,  for  they  knew  there  was  a 
spice  of  fickleness  in  the  young  man’s  nature,  which  gave 
promise  of  grave  results,  unless  they  were  timely  nipped  in 
the  bud. 

He  had  been  abroad  a  year,  which  makes  quite  a  dif¬ 
ference  in  the  human  heart;  and  of  late  doubtful  shadows 
flitted  across  his  mind. 

There  could  be  no  question  of  his  love  for  his  pretty,  gold- 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


8 


en-haired  Loraine.  he  was  true  to  her  in  word,  deed  and 
thought ;  still  he  often  wondered  if  that  one  eventful  mo¬ 
ment,  when  influenced  by  some  sweet,  mysterious  spell,  he 
had  impulsively  asked  Loraine  to  be  his  wife,  were  to  be 
lived  over  again,  would  he  have  done  otherwise? 

He  smiled  as  he  thought  how  differently  the  poets  ex¬ 
press  their  dreams  of  love,  how  it  thrilled  the  heart,  ay, 
the  very  soul,  how  the -moments  that  separated  a  lover  from 
the  one  beloved,  seemed  the  length  of  eternity, 

Ulmont  leaned  his  handsome  head  on  his  white  hands, 
gazing  thoughtfully  down  into  the  white  foam-tipped 
waves,  thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  he  had  expe* 
rienced  none  of  this;  one  week  more  and  he  should  see 
America  and  Loraine,  yet  the  thought  afforded  him  not 
one  extravagant  pulse  glow.  He  laughed  at  the  sweet 
fancies  of  the  poets.  They  had  said : 

“A  life  without  love  is  never  a  perfect  one.” 

"When  he  had  asked  Loraine  Lorrimer  to  become  his 
wife  he  had  fulfilled  the  dearest  wish  of  his  haughty,  lady- 
mother’s  heart.  One  week  more,  then  he  could  claim  his 
bn  le. 

A  week !  ah,  what  might  happen  in  that  time ;  volcanoes 
have  swallowed  peaceful  villages;  wind  and  tide  destroyed 
great  cities;  whole  nations  in  the  brief  interval  of  a  week 
have  been  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

Already  a  shadow  no  larger  than  a  bird’s  wing  had 
crossed  his  path,  and  in  the  distance  the  lowering  storm 
clouds  would  suddenly  burst  upon  his  hapless  head,  sow¬ 
ing  the  seeds  that  would  end  in  the  bitterest  of  tragedies. 

So  intent  was  Ulmont  with  his  own  thoughts,  he  had  not 
observed  an  old  man  and  a  young  girl  kneeling  by  his  side, 
where  the  shadows  were  thickest,  in  the  most  secluded  por¬ 
tion  of  the  deck. 

“  To-morrow  we  shall  reach  Boston,  Izetta,”  said  the  old 
man,  wistfully,  laying  his  hands  lightly  on  the  girl’s  dark 
curls. 

“Yes,  grandfather,”  she  answered,  softly,  “let  us  hope 
in  sunny  America  we  may  forget  the  past.” 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  with  a  long,  low  sigh. 

“I  fear  not,  Izetta,”  he  replied;  “the  world  has  been 
cruel  to  me,  child,  cruel  to  the  bitter  end.  It  is  hard  for 
one  of  my  years,  Izetta,  to  commence  gathering  up  the  fallen 
ends  of  fortune  that  slipped  though  my  heedless  fingers  in 
youth.  I  have  lived  my  life,  and  dreamed  my  dreams,  but, 
Izetta,  you  will  never  know  how  sweet  a,  dream  it  was.” 

“  Let  us  trust,  dear  grandfather,  that  in  America,  we  may 
vet  retrieve  our  fallen  fortunes,”  answered  the  young  girl, 
hopefully. 

’  “Hushl”  cried  the  old  man,  with  a  quivering  voice; 


4  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

“those  were  the  words  your  mother  spoke  long  years 
ago.” 

“Poor,  dear  mother,”  sighed  Izetta,  gazing  up  at  the 
great  sorrowful  stars  that  glittered  in  the  blue  dome  above 
her,  as  if  in  that  far-off  cloud-land  she  could  trace  the  fair, 
young  mother’s  face  that  had  smiled  upon  her  under  the 
sunny  skies  of  Itajy. 

“If  she  had  only  lived,  grandfather,”  she  said,  “our 
lives  would  have  been  so  different.” 

“My  Natalie  died  of  a  broken  heart,”  he  murmured, 
plaintively;  “she  married  against  my  will— in  vain  I 
warned  her ;  youth  is  blind  and  will  not  see.  When  our 
fortune  was  wasted,  and  the  fever  threatened  Natalie,  you 
were  born ;  in  the  midst  of  all  lie  fled,  none  knew  whither — 
’twas  said  he  died.  The  shock  killed  my  poor  Natalie ;  we 
have  had  a  hard  lot  of  it  ever  since,  you  and  I,  little  one.  I 
have  tried  to  be  very  kind  to  you.  Heaven  only  knows  what 
a  comfort  you  have  been  to  me!  Izetta,  child,”  he  said,  as 
if  stirred  by  a  sudden  impulse,  “  sing  me  the  song  Natalie 
loved  so  well.  I  feel  a  strange  unrest;  perhaps  ’twill 
soothe  me.” 

’Twas  then  the  sweetest  melody  ever  uttered  by  a  human 
voice  fell  upon  the  startled  ear  of  UlmontUlvesford,  a  voice 
that  thrilled  him  to  the  very  heart  core,  he  could  not  tell 
why,  a  voice  pathetic,  low,  and  wondrous  sweet,  with 
only  the  wild  dashing  of  the  waves  for  an  accompaniment, 
or  the  flapping  of  some  night-bird’s  wing  of  plaintive, 
quivering  note. 

Ere  the  first  vibrations  of  that  sweet,  sad  strain  had  died 
away,  the  young  heir  seemed  to  have  commenced  a  new 
life,  and  those  bright,  aimless  years  of  his  past — a  desert 
lying  far  behind  him. 

The  pale  moon  broke  through  the  overhanging  clouds, 
and  Ulmont  leaned  breathlessly  forward  to  gaze  upon  the 
face  of  the  singer. 

She  was  of  scarcely  sixteen  summers  and  the  face  turned 
toward  him,  so  wondrously  lovely  in  its  rich,  dusky 
beauty,  thrilled  his  heart  as  it  had  never  thrilled  before,  a 
rare,  brilliant,  sparkling,  foreign  face,  framed  in  a  mass  of 
jetty  curls  that  fell  upon  the  crimson  cloak  she  wore  in  un¬ 
confined  luxuriance;  eyes,  large,  dark,  and  luminous, 
fringed  by  tneir  heavy  silken  lashes,  before  which  the  stars 
seemed  pale  in  their  wondrous  splendor.  A  face  which 
ripens  only  under  sunny  foreign  skies. 

The  shifting  moonbeams  pierced  the  fleecy  clouds,  flood¬ 
ing  the  dark  shadows  where  they  sat  in  its  silvery  light. 

There  was  a  time  coming  in  the  life  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford 
when  he  would  look  back  to  that  scene  with  almost  a  curse 
on  his  lips ;  now,  he  only  saw  its  brightness,  the  rare,  ex- 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


5 


quisite  face  in  its  glorious  beauty,  and  the  beautiful  eyes 
gazing  up  into  the  haggard  face  of  the  old  man  at  her  side 
with  wistful  tenderness. 

“  Did  you  like  the  song,  grandfather?”  she  asked,  softly. 

His  only  answer  was  a  sigh  that  died  away  in  a  fitful 
moan. 

The  young  girl  little  dreamed  the  picture  she  made,  her 
head  resting  on  the  old  man’s  shoulder,  her  long  curls, 
darker  than  a  raven’s  plume,  lying  against  his  snowy 
beard. 

“Izetta,”  said  the  old  man,  solemnly,  turning  toward 
her  with  a  look  she  had  never  seen  on  his  face  before,  “I 
have  had  such  strange  fancies,  such  strange  forebodings 
to-night.  In  the  whisperings  of  the  wind  I  can  hear  Nat¬ 
alie’s  voice,  and  in  those  fleecy  clouds  I  can  see  a  white 
hand  beckoning  me.  Are  you  there,  Izetta,  child?  I  can- 
yot  see  you.” 

“Grandfather,  oh,  grandfather,”  she  said,  “are  you  ill? 
Speak  to  me !” 

She  saw  a  strange  light  gathering  in  his  eyes,  and  break¬ 
ing  over  his  face.  The  white  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  is¬ 
sued  from  them.  Then  the  roving  eyes  saw  the  figure  of 
a  young  man  not  far  from  them,  leaning  against  the  rail¬ 
ing,  watching  them  intently. 

Dy  a  great  effort  the  old  man  raised  his  hand,  and  beck¬ 
oned  him  to  his  side. 

There  was  something  in  that  pitiful  appeal  Ulmont 
Ulvesford  could  not  resist. 

Long  and  earnestly  those  strangely  brilliant  eyes  scan¬ 
ned  the  noble  young  face.  One  hand  the  old  man  stretched 
out  to  him,  and  with  the  other  clasped  the  young  girl  to 
his  breast. 

Ulmont  took  the  outstretched  hand  with  a  firm,  gentle 
pressure. 

“You  are  an  American?”  said  the  old  man,  speaking 
with  difficulty. 

Ulmont  bowed  assent. 

“You  have  an  honest  and  noble  face,”  he  said  huskily, 
“one  I  can  trust.” 

Again  Ulmont  bowed  over  the  wan,  thin  hand  that  clung 
tenaciously  to  his. 

“We  are  strangers,”  continued  the  old  man,  “but  I 
have  the  greatest  favor  to  ask  of  you  that  man  can  grant 
to  man.” 

A  puzzled  look  swept  over  Ulmont’s  face.  He  scarcely 
knew  what  answer  to  make  him. 

“  You  are  surely  ill,  sir,”  said  he,  gravely.  “Allow  me 
to  call  the  ship’s  physician  to  your  aid.” 

The  other  smiled  faintly. 


6 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“  No,”  he  whispered,  “I  shall  soon  be  beyond  all  help. 
My  moments  are  precious.  I  could  not  die  with  the  thought, 
that  presses  hard  upon  me,  unspoken. 

Again  Ulmont  insisted  upon  calling  medical  assistance, 
but  the  wan  hand  tightened  its  hold  upon  his  own. 

“  I  have  a  strange  presentiment,”  whispered  the  old  man. 
“I  shall  never  reach  America.  A  mist  rises  before  me. 
Should  anything  befall  me  ere  we  reach  the  port  will  you  be 
a  brother  to  my  child?  I  could  not  die  and  know  she  was 
uncared  for  and  alone.  In  this  belt  about  me  you  will  find 
one  hundred  francs.  Will  you  take  them  for  her?  Will 
you  accept  the  trust?” 

There  was  a  strange  gurgling  in  his  throat,  but  the  fleet¬ 
ing  breath  still  clung  to  its  mortal  tenement. 

Ulmont  was  bewildered.  What  should  he  say — what 
should  he  do? 

“Promise  me,”  wailed  the  old  man.  sharply,  in  an  agony 
of  entreaty.  “Another  moment,  and  my  life  is  spent. 
Promise  you  will  protect  my  child,  ccme  what  may,  and 
you  will  gain  a  dying  man’s  eternal  blessing.  For  the  love 
of  Heaven  speak  quickly !” 

It  was  all  so  sudden  Ulmont  scarcely  realized  what  he 
did. 

How  could  he  refuse  so  vital  a  request,  with  those  en¬ 
treating  eyes  burning  into  his  very  soul?  He  seemed  as  if 
in  a  strange  dream. 

“  I  promise,”  he  answered,  slowly. 

“  Swear  it !”  gasped  the  dying  voice.  “  You  will  protect 
Izetta,  come  what  may.” 

“I  will  protect  Izetta,  come  what  may,”  repeated  Ul¬ 
mont,  steadily.  “As  I  deal  by  your  child,  so  may  Heaven 
deal  with  me  1” 

“  God  bless  you !  I  shall  hold  the  trust  a  sacred  one,” 
whispered  the  faint  voice. 

A  smile  of  unutterable  joy  lit  up  his  wrinkled  face. 

‘  ‘  Bless  you !”  he  muttered ;  then  he  turned  to  the  young 
girl,  clinging  and  sobbing  her  heart  out  on  his  breast. 

“Izetta,”  he  murmured,  “  Izetta - ” 

That  beloved  name  was  the  last  word  Victor  Rienzi  ever 
uttered.  His  hands  relaxed  their  hold;  his  head  fell  for¬ 
ward  on  his  breast. 

The  steamer  plowed  heavily  through  the  dark  seething 
waters.  The  pale  moon  looked  pityingly  down  from  the 
misty  clouds  upon  the  white,  horrified  face  of  Ulmont  Ul- 
vesford  and  the  fair,  young  girl,  who  uttered,  in  piercing 
cries : 

“  Grandfather !  oh,  my  grandfather,  speak  to  me;  do  not 
leave  me  all  alone.  See,  my  heart  is  breaking!” 

The  WMv  eries  diqd  away  over  the  dark,  rippling  water*, 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


7 


the  stiffening  fingers  and  the  cold  lips  gave  back  no  answer¬ 
ing  caress,  as  was  their  wont.  It  was  all  over.  The  sands 
of  the  old  man’s  life  were  run.  He  was  dead.  And  the 
White  Cresson  bore  steadily  on  her  way. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  QUESTION  OF  HONOR. 

All  through  the  long  night  and  the  day  that  followed, 
IJlmont  pondered  long  and  earnestly  over  the  strange  pre¬ 
dicament  in  which  he  found  himself  suddenly  placed ;  he 
felt  annoyed  and  perplexed. 

Two  days  ago  he  was  as  free  and  untrammeled  as  the 
wind  that  blew ;  now,  the  responsibility  of  this  young  girl’s 
future  was  thrust  suddenly  upon  him. 

He  paced  the  deck  to  and  fro,  asking  himself  over  and 
over  again  what  he  should  do  with  her. 

At  first,  he  had  thought  of  taking  Izetta  directly  home ; 
then  the  stern,  haughty  face  of  his  lady-mother  rose  up 
before  him  in  bitter  censure,  as  her  keen  eyes  fell  search- 
ingly,  coldly  on  the  timid,  shrinking  orphan  who  had  been 
thrust  so  unceremoniously  upon  their  care ;  then  he  won¬ 
dered  what  Loraine,  his  promised  bride,  would  think  of 
this  affair. 

That  thought  disturbed  him  above  all  others ;  her  calm 
proud  face  rose  up  before  him  in  wondering  disapproval. 

That  quite  convinced  him  it  would  be  the  most  impru¬ 
dent  course  he  could  possibly  pursue,  taking  Izetta  home 
until  he  had  prepared  the  way  for  her. 

He  was  certainly  vexed  about  the  whole  rfi^ter. 

Since  the  death  of  her  grandfather,  Izetta  had  turned  to 
him  instinctively  for  sympathy,  a  world  of  unutterable 
woe  in  the  mute,  dark  eyes  raised  to  his  face. 

She  was  wholly  adrift  on  the  world— without  rudder,  or 
compass. 

By  some  strange,  capricious  impulse,  when  Izetta  had 
timidly  asked  him  his  name,  he  had  answered  by  giving 
her  his  middle  name — Alderic  Ross. 

A  flush  mantled  his  clear  brow  as  his  lips  framed  the 
name ;  over-indulgence  through  all  his  boyhood  had  given 
somewhat  of  a  dash  of  recklessness  to  his  nature,  yet  this 
was  the  first  deception  he  had  ever  willfully  lent  him¬ 
self  to. 

He  quite  regretted  it  the  next  moment  after  he  had 
spoken. 

He  could  hardly  have  told  why  he  did  it.  Only  Heaven 
alone  could  have  foretold  the  terrible  consequences  which 
were  to  accrue  from  that  one  heedless  act  of  folly, 


8 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


Ulmont  thought  it  best  to  acquaint  Izetta  at  once  with 
the  plans  he  had  made  in  regard  to  her  future. 

He  knew  just  where  he  should  find  her,  sitting  on  a  coil 
of  rope  in  a  remote  quarter  of  the  deck ;  her  large  eyes 
with  a  far  away  look  in  them,  gazing  out  over  the  water, 
her  hands  clasped  idly  in  her  lap. 

Ulmont’s  vexation  and  annoyance  partly  vanished  as  he 
took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

“  Izetta,”  he  said  kindly,  “.I  have  concluded  it  will  be 
best  to  leave  you  at  the  next  port,  which  we  shall  reach  in 
probably  an  hour  or  so,  while  I  go  on  alone - ” 

He  was  amazed  at  the  startled  cry  which  she  uttered  as 
she  turned  to  him,  ere  he  had  finished  his  sentence. 

‘  ‘  Oh,  Mr.  Ross,  ”  she  cried,  clinging  tremblingly  to  his 
arm,  1  ‘  let  me  go  with  you,  I  shall  surely  die  if  I  am  left 
all  alone!” 

The  pleading  expression  on  the  beautiful  young  face,  the 
quivering  lips,  and  the  tears  lying  on  the  dark  eye-lashes, 
touched  him  strangely. 

“How  could  I  lose  sight,  even  for  a  day,”  she  sobbed, 
“of  the  only  kind  face  that  has  smiled  upon  me  in  the  land 
of  strangers  to  which  we  are  going?” 

Her  great  grief  had  so  wrapped  her  in  its  mantle  that  she 
had  not  once  thought  of  her  future  that  spread  out  darkly 
before  her. 

Izetta  was  a  strange  picture  of  child  and  budding  girl¬ 
hood  blended. 

She  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  the  peculiar  position 
into  which  fate  had  drifted  her. 

Youth  is  impulsive  ;  there  was  no  one  to  warn  her  how 
far  she  should  trust  the  handsome  young  stranger  who  had 
become  so  unexpectedly  part  and  parcel  of  her  life. 

To  whom  should  she  turn  for  comfort,  sympathy,  and 
guidance,  if  not  to  Mr.  Ross,  as  she  called  him? 

Ulmont  reassured  her  with  the  kindest  of  words: 

“It  will  only  be  for  a  day  or  so,  Izetta,”  he  said,  “be¬ 
fore  I  can  take  you  home.” 

“You  wish  to  ask  your  mother  if  you  may  bring  me 
home?”  she  asked. 

“Yes,”  he  replied  frankly;  “I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty 
to  consult  her  first  in  regard  to  the  matter.” 

“What  if  she  should  refuse,”  she  questioned  in  a  low 
voice,  “what  would  become  of  me — what  should  I  do?” 

“  She  will  not  refuse,”  he  answered,  “  when  I  explain  to 
her  the  vow  which  I  have  made  to  protect  you,  and  tell 
her  your  sorrowful  history.” 

‘  ‘  Do  you  think  your  mother  will  learn  to  love  me,  Mr. 
Ross?” 

The  simple  question  startled  him. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“I  do  not  see  how  she  can  help  loving  you,”  he  replied, 
gazing  down  into  the  girl’s  eloquent  face,  mentally  think¬ 
ing  she  little  knew  into  what  good  hands  her  fate  had 
drifted  her.  He  released  himself  gently  from  her  clinging 
hands. 

‘  ‘  I  had  not  thought  you  would  be  so  sorry  to  lose  me  for 
so  short  a  time,”  he  said,  gently.” 

He  gazed  earnestly  at  the  sweet,  white  face  that  was 
raised  to  his,  changing  eloquently  with  every  emotion. 

“  You  will  not  stay  away  long,  Mr.  Ross,”  she  asked,  in 
a  low  voice:  “  oh,  Mr.  Ross,  what  should  I  do  without  you, 
how  should  I  bear  my  lonely  life?  I  should  die  if  you 
did  not  come  back.  1  have  not  one  friend  on  all  the 
wide,  wide  earth  but  you — since — since ” 

“You  must  not  worry  yourself  with  such  thoughts, 
Izetta,  I  have  given  my  word,  I  will  never  break  it.  You 
must  from  this  time  forth  look  upon  me  as  your  best  and 
truest  friend — your  brother !” 

He  was  very  enthusiastic  at  that  moment ;  he  quite  meant 
what  he  said. 

He  had  intended  speaking  of  Loraine,  yet  ho  could  not 
bring  himself  to  mention  her — his  proud,  peerless  Loraine 
—to  the  timid  young  creature  who  he  was  certain  would 
be  in  such  awe  of  hen. 

After  all,  as  he  gazed  at  the  beautiful,  trusting,  clinging 
little  creature  at  his  side,  he  could  not  f eel  so  very  sorry 
he  had  undertaken  the  responsibility  of  her  future. 

He  was  only  anxious  as  to  how  his  mother  and  Loraine 
would  receive  the  strange  intelligence. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  western  hills, 
flushing  the  sky  a  rosy  red,  Ulmont  and  Izetta  were 
making  their  way  up  the  straggling,  moss  grown  street  to 
the  heart  of  the  little  seaport  town  of  Sussex,  which  was 
but  little  over  a  day’s  journey  from  his  destination;  yet 
Ulmont  had  never  been  in  that  locality  before. 

There  was  not  a  more  picturesque  spot  to  be  found,  with 
its  quaint  old  square-towered  churches,  over  which  the 
ivy  twined  in  long,  trailing  sprays,  and  in  which  the  twit¬ 
tering  sparrows  built  their  nests. 

A  little  purling  brook  leaped  from  the  green  hills,  that 
raised  their  towering  heads  in  the  distance,  while  beyond 
the  white  stretch  of  beach  that  led  to  the  sea,  were  the 
peaceful  meadows  filled  with  flowers,  upon  which  the  sun 
shone,  with  the  blackbird  and  the  robin  swaying  to  and 
fro  on  the  blossoming  peach  trees. 

“Oh,  Mr.  Ross,”  cried  the  girl,  a  glad  flush  creeping 
into  her  face,  ‘  ‘  I  never  knew,  I  never  dreamed  America 
could  be  one  half  so  fair  as  this !” 

They  passed  up  the  moss-grown  street,  which  led  to  the 


10 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


only  tavern  in  the  place.  A  long,  low,  old  fashioned 
structure,  with  a  wide  porch  in  front  shaded  by  stately 
elms. 

Into  a  wide  parlor,  overlooking  a  thrifty  garden,  they 
were  ushered. 

The  floor,  dark  and  polished,  was  covered  with  bright- 
hued  rugs,  while  the  chintz-covered  settees  and  low  willow 
rockers,  placed  here  and  there,  gave  the  room  an  exceed- 
in  1  comfortable  and  home-like  aspect. 


mont  went  in  search  of  the  landlord  while  Izetta  sank 


into  a  seat,  not  observing  the  bustling  little  woman  in  the 
dark  gingham  gown  and  white  frilled  cap,  whose  sharp, 
twinkling  gray  eyes  were  regarding  her  steadfastly  from 
across  the  room. 

“She  does  not  look  like  a  married  woman,”  mentally 
commented  Mrs.  Bruce.  “  I  must  know  more  of  her  be¬ 
fore  she  finds  shelter  here.  You  and  your  husband  have 
come  quite  a  distance,  I  should  judge,”  she  said,  aloud.  « 

Izetta  turned  in  surprise ;  she  had  imagined  herself  quite 
alone ;  she  saw  a  woman’s  face  turned  kindly  toward  her. 

No  woman’s  voice  had  spoken  to  her  since  she  had  bid 
farewell  to  Italy. 

Izetta  longed  to  cross  to  where  the  speaker  sat,  fling  her¬ 
self  on  the  low  footstool  beside  her,  and  tell  her  of  the 
great  sorrow  that  had  come  upon  her  in  the  death  of  the 
only  being  to  whom  she  was  bound  by  a  kindred  tie  in  all 
the  wide  world. 

How  little  the  child  knew  of  the  pitiless,  relentless  world, 
or  its  intriguing  people ! 

She  had  longed,  hungered,  for  a  woman’s  gentle  words 
and  kindly  sympathy ;  great  tears  rose  in  Izetta’s  eyes  as 
she  answered  simply,  yet  with  the  candor  of  a  child: 

“  Mr.  Ross  is  not  my  husband,  madam.” 

“Perhaps  your  brother,  then?”  queried  Mrs.  Bruce. 

“I  have  had  a  great  sorrow,  madam,”  said  Izetta, 
mournfully,  tears  filling  her  large,  dark  eyes;  “a  sorrow 
so  great  I  have  wondered  since  that  I  had  not  died  with 
the  shock.  I  had  neither  father  nor  mother — I  had  no  one 
to  whom  I  could  turn  for  sympathy.  Mr.  Ross  was  so 
kind  to  me — I  do  not  know  what  would  become  of  me 
if  I  were  to  lose  Mr.  Ross.  I  am  quite  alone  now,  only  for 
him.” 

The  dark  frown  deepened  on  Mrs.  Bruce’s  comely  face. 

“  Do  you  mean  to  say  the  young  man  who  brought  you 
here  is  quite  a  stranger  to  you?”  she  asked,  sharply  and 
interrogatively. 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  simply,  “we  came  over  from 
Italy  on  the  steamer  White  Cresson .” 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  11 


She  wondered  why,  in  one  short  moment,  the  speaker’s 
voice  had  grown  so  bitter  and  so  hard. 

Izetta’s  answer  had  quite  convicted  her  in  the  eyes  of  the 
bustling  housewife,  whose  face  had  grown  white  with 
rage. 

From  the  open  window  where  she  sat  she  had  heard  Ul- 
mont  ask  her  husband  if  his  companion  might  find  shelter 
at  the  inn  during  his  absence  of  a  few  days. 

“Money  was  no  object,”  he  said,  “if  she  were  only  com¬ 
fortable.” 

Ulmont  had  pressed  a  purse  so  filled  with  gold  into  his 
hand,  he  fairly  took  the  landlord’s  breath  away;  and  he 
had  looked  at  the  handsome,  courteous,  impatient  stran¬ 
ger,  wondering  what  it  could  all  mean,  while  his  wife, 
closely  observing  all  from  the  window,  mentally  concluded 
all  was  not  right  with  them ;  and  she  said  to  herself,  if  the 
handsome  stranger  left  the  young  girl  there,  she  would 
doubtless  never  look  upon  his  face  again. 

Mrs.  Bruce  had  passed  many  a  year  at  the  inn,  and  had 
seen  many  pitiful  scenes.  She  had  said  to  herself : 

“  He  is  tired  of  the  girl,  he  wishes  to  abandon  her,  if  she 
is  not  his  wife.” 

Then  she  had  turned  to  Izetta,  whose  simple  candor  had 
confirmed  her  worst  suspicions. 

At  that  moment  Ulmont  entered  the  cool,  shadowy  par¬ 
lor,  bowing  to  the  lady  present,  and  holding  out  both  hands 
to  Izetta. 


His  quick  perception  told  him  there  was  something  amiss 
between  Izetta  and  the  landlady,  as  such  he  judged  her 
rightly  to  be. 

Mrs.  Bruce  turned  sharply  toward  him. 

“You  are  a  gentleman,”  she  said,  “bred  and  born.  I 
know  blue  blood  when  I  see  it,  and  I  say  there  is  a  mystery 
here  between  yourself  and  this  young  creature,  scarcely 
more  than  a  child,  who  confesses  she  is  not  your  wife,  yet 
you  have  crossed  the  seas  together.  We  are  poor  people, 
here,  sir,  but  we  are  honest  ones.  I  have  daughters  grown 
of  my  own.  We  care  not  for  your  gold;  the  Sussex  Inn 
shall  never  harbor  even  the  shadow  of  wrong-doing  while 
Esther  Bruce  lives.  Food  you  may  have  in  plenty,  but  not 
shelter.  No,  not  for  a  single  night  I” 

In  vain  Ulmont  bent  his  haughty  pride  to  explain  the 
circumstances  which  surrounded  this  peculiar  case;  the 
inflexible  woman  was  deaf  to  his  words. 

“  I  had  no  intention  of  stopping  myself,”  he  expostulat¬ 
ed;  “I  take  the  boat  lying  down  at  the  wharf  which  leaves 
in  half  an  hour.” 

The  landlady  looked  at  him  with  gathering  scorn  in  her 

eyes. 


a  Fatal  wooing. 


“  A  very  pretty  story,”  she  said,  ironically,  “when  the 
boat  left  quite  half  an  hour  ago.” 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  staggered  back  as  though  a  heavy 
blow  had  been  suddenly  dealt  him. 

Lurid  flashes  of  light  seemed  gleaming  before  his  eyes; 
the  hissing  voice  falling  sharply  on  his  senses  seemed  to 
flaunt  back  the  words : 

“  The  boat  has  left !” 

With  trembling  hands  he  hurriedly  consulted  his  watch 
— it  was  indeed  too  true ;  he  had  loitered  too  long :  the 
darkness  of  night  was  gathering  sullenly  around  them, 
and  Izetta  was  refused  shelter  at  the  inn  because  she  was 
not  his  wife ! 

For  himself  he  cared  not ;  then  and  not  until  then  did 
the  full  realization  of  his  exact  position  strike  him  for¬ 
cibly. 

How  was  he  to  keep  the  terrible  vow  forced  upon  him, 
when  failure  beset  him  at  the  very  outset? 

How  little  they  thought  that  one  incident  would  reap 
such  a  harvest  of  woe. 

Had  Ulmont  found  shelter  for  the  young  orphan  at  the 
inn,  the  seeds  of  the  bitterest  of  follies  would  never  have 
been  sown. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AT  HIS  MERCY. 

An  hour  later,  two  figures  stood  on  the  white  pebbled 
beach  watching  intently  the  approaching  steamer,  whose 
headlights,  each  moment  growing  nearer,  glowed  like 
bright  stars  against  the  dark,  overhanging  background  of 
clouds. 

The  moonbeams  fell  clear  and  bright  upon  them,  cast¬ 
ing  weird,  gigantic  shadows  on  the  white  beach;  the  low 
j  winds  moaned  as  they  stirred  the  blossoming  trees,  and 
’  the  waves  dismally  beat  against  the  shore. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  was  lost  in  a  deep  reverie,  as  he  stood 
there  impatiently  watching  the  incoming  steamer,  scarcely 
heeding  the  silent  little  figure  watching  every  expression 
that  crossed  his  face,  who  stood  by  his  side. 

“But  for  this  unfortunate  affair,  I  should  have  been  al¬ 
most  at  Boston,”  he  told  himself. 

The  arrival  of  the  steamer  was  so  uncertain,  they  would 
not  expect  him  until  the  following  week. 

He  had  intended  surprising  them  by  arriving  a  week 
sooner,  but  now  the  suprise  would  take  quite  another 
form. 

How  his  friends  would  laugh  at  his  sorry  plight  if 
they  were  to  see  him  now — he,  an  Ulvesford,  heir  that 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  15 

fore  the  rector ;  surely,  he  of  all  people  could  advise  him 
what  course  to  pursue. 

He  was  sorely  perplexed;  he  quite  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  taking  Izetta  to  his  haughty  mother;  the  con¬ 
viction  was  growing  stronger  upon  him  each  moment,  that 
he  dared  not  until  he  had  first  consulted  her. 

“  I  trust  you  will  not  wrong  me  in  your  thoughts,  my 
dear  Mr.  Tilings  worth,”  he  said,  proudly,  “until  I  have 
had  the  opportunity  of  explaining  how  strangely  this  poor 
child  was  placed  in  my  care.” 

The  rector  took  the  proffered  seat  he  indicated. 

Izetta  nestled  closer  to  Ulmont’s  side,  thoughtlessly,  con¬ 
fidingly,  as  a  child  might  have  done,  as  he  repeated  to  this 
stranger  her  sorrowful  story. 

There  were  tears  in  Mr.  IUingsworth’s  eyes  as  he  finished 
the  narrative. 

“  I  don’t  see  how  you  can  take  her  to  your  home  know¬ 
ing  your  mother  as  well  as  I  do,  without  preparing  the  way 
for  her,”  said  the  rector,  decidedly,  shaking  his  head. 
“  Could  you  not  leave  her  with  some  of  your  friends  for  a 
few  days,  at  least?” 

“  That  is  a  point  which  I  have  myself  been  trying  to  de¬ 
cide.  I  confess  I  was  never  so  sorely  puzzled.  I  had  pre¬ 
ferred  leaving  her  for  a  short  time  with  strangers.  I  had 
not  desired  my  friends  to  know  of  the  affair.  My  experi¬ 
ence  at  Sussex  makes  me  doubtful  of  success.  No  one 
would  receive  this  innocent  child,  money  was  no  induce¬ 
ment,  simply  because  she  was  not  my  wile.” 

“Precisely,”  answered  the  rector;  “you  do  not  realise 
how  a  curious  world  receives  this  story,  which  seems  more 
like  a  romance  than  a  sad  reality ;  truths  are  stranger  than 
fiction,  yet  often  unbelieved.  Poor  child,”  he  added  sadly, 
patting  Izetta’s  dark  curls,  “  the  poor  boy  means  well  by 
you,  but  Heaven  alone  knows  the  bitter  scorn  and  weary 
heartaches  you  will  have  to 'endure  alone  and  unprotected.” 

“Not  so,”  answered  Ulmont,  quickly,  “I  am  her  pro¬ 
tector.  Have  I  not  made  the  most  solemn  vow  man  can 
make  to  stand  between  this  helpless  orphan  and  the  cold 
world,  and  I  certainly  mean  to  fulfill  it.” 

“You  could  only  have  protected  her  fully  from  the 
world  s  storms  in  one  way.  ” 

“  And  that?”  asked  Ulmont,  a  strange,  indefinable  feel¬ 
ing  creeping  over  him. 

“  As  your  wife,”  answered  the  rector,  gravely.  “You 
have  wealth,  youth,  and  beauty,  Ulmont;  I  can  foresee  how 
this  will  end.  This  child  will  learn  to  love  you,  you  will  be 
her  world,  her  all ;  but  hark  you,  as  you  value  the  honor  of 
your  race,  an  honor  never  tarnished,  as  you  deal  by  this 
hapless  orphan  Heaven  will  deal  with  you.  You  have 


16 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


always  been  wayward  from  boyhood  up,  but  I  shall  be 
lieve  your  heart  is  pure  and  spotless.  Never  forget  the 
future  welfare  of  this  trusting  orphan  lies  at  your  door — 
she  is  at  your  mercy.” 

The  Reverend  Paul  Illingsworth  spoke  rapidly,  vehe¬ 
mently. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  rose  to  his  feet,  pacing  rapidly  to  and 
fro. 

The  eloquent  appeal  of  the  rector  filled  him  with  strange 
thoughts,  he  stopped  suddenly  before  him,  his  proud  head 
tossed  back,  his  dark-brown,  waving  hair  pushed  back 
from  his  forehead  in  careless  disorder. 

Scarcely  two  minutes  before  he  spoke,  the  idea  had  not 
crossed  his  mind ;  and  when  he  looked  back  at  that  mo¬ 
ment  in  after  years,  it  almost  seemed  to  him  that  another 
voice  had  spoken  with  his  lips. 

His  honor  was  touched,  his  pride  wounded. 

“Mr.  Illingsworth,”  he  said,  calmly,  “I  have  resolved 
upon  Izetta’s  future.” 

His  brave  voice  never  faltered  as  he  continued : 

“I  have  determined  she  shall  be  my  wife ;  see  how  she 
clings  to  me,”  he  cried.  “  I  have  sworn  to  protect  her.  I 
can  and  I  will  as  my  wife.” 

He  had  quite  forgotten  the  beautiful,  golden-hatred 
young  girl  who  awaited  his  coming,  the  peerless,  proud 
young  beauty  who  was  to  have  been  his  wife  in  one  short 
week. 

In  one  brief  instant  the  recklessness  of  his  impulsive  nat¬ 
ure  asserted  itself;  he  forgot  the  warning  face  of  his 
mother  and  of  his  promised  bride;  he  thought  only  of  the 
present  difficulties  and  of  a  way  out  of  them  by  which 
he  could  keep  his  vow  to  the  very  letter. 

How  strange  it  was,  in  that  terrible  moment  not  one 
thought  of  Loraine  crossed  his  mind. 

“Mr.  Illingsworth,”  he  continued;  “you  must  help  me 
— you  must  marry  us.” 

“You  cannot  be  serious,”  replied  the  pastor;  “besides 
you  are  too  young  to  think  of  marrying  yet.” 

“I  am  of  age  to-day,”  continued  Ulmont;  “one  ought 
certainly  to  be  able  to  think  for  themselves  at  that  age, 
they  are  men  not  boys.  I  am  terribly  in  earnest,  I  assure 
you.” 

Persuasion  Avas  useless;  the  one  great  evil — self-will — 
which  had  been  sown  in  his  breast  in  infancy,  would  brook 
no  opposition. 

He  quite  forgot  what  was  due  to  his  mother,  to  Loraine; 
forgot  what  was  due  to  the  honor  of  his  race.  He  only 
saAV  in  his  rashness  a  Avay  Avhich  should  compel  the 
world  to  respect  and  honor  the  poor  young  orphan 


A  FATAL  WOOING,  IT 

whom  they  had  turned  from  their  doors  because  she  was 
not  his  wife. 

The  rector  was  sorely  discomforted ;  he  was  too  wise 
to  openly  thwart  the  young  heir,  yet  he  begged  him  “  not 
to  be  too  rash,  to  take  time  to  consider  so  important  a 
step.” 

An  angry  flush  rose  to  Ulmont’s  face,  but  he  controlled 
his  impatience. 

“I  shall  make  the  request  but  once,  Mr,  Illingsworth. 
If  you  refuse  me,  you  may  perhaps  rue  it  all  your  life.” 

The  rector  wondered  if  he  did  not  refuse  him,  if  he 
would  not  be  more  apt  to  rue  it ;  he  was  irritated  at  Ul¬ 
mont’s  recklessness  and  utter  folly,  while  he  was  forced  to 
admire  the  young  heir’s  honor  and  courage. 

Izetta,  as  she  listened,  was  conscious  of  but  one  thought 
—she  was  not  to  lose  Mr.  Ross — they  were  settling  her  fut¬ 
ure;  she  was  not  to  lose  the  handsome,  sympathetic 
young  friend,  who  seemed  brighter  to  her  than  the  sun¬ 
shine. 

Izetta  had  been  born  under  the  warm,  bright,  sunny 
skies  of  Italy:  she  had  imbibed  the  warm,  bright,  passion¬ 
ate  heart  of  its  people;  such  natures  as  Izetta’s  were  not 
slow  to  feel  the  mystic  power  of  love.  Yet  she  had  never 
once  dreamed  of  it. 

How  was  she  to  understand  that  the  bright,  swift  love  of 
a  lifetime,  the  one  great  crown  of  womanhood,  was  slowly 
but  surely  engulfing  her? 

The  bright,  dreamy  years  of  her  childhood  lay  far  back 
in  the  past. 

Izetta  Rienzi  stood  on  the  borderland  of  womanhood 
as  her  hands  clasped  Ulmont’s  while  he  explained  to  her 
in  the  fervor  of  his  eloquent  fancy  that  she  must  be  his 
wife. 

“  Is  there  nothing  which  can  shake  your  purpose?”  asked 
the  rector  in  despair. 

“  Nothing,”  answered  Ulmont,  decisively. 

Again  they  stood  upon  the  silent  deck,  quite  deserted 
now,  save  by  these  three.  Again  the  pale  moon  looked 
down  upon  a  tragic  picture. 

The  fleecy  clouds,  like  a  white  hand,  seemed  to  warn 
them.  A  star  or  two  fell  from  the  heavens,  leaving  long 
trails  of  phosphorescent  light  against  the  blue  sky. 

The  green  waves  dashed  their  white  foam  like  a  restless 
spirit  against  the  swaying  steamer. 

Was  it  a  dream?  Izetta  almost  fancied  the  wild,  dashing 
waves  were  singing  a  requiem,  murmuring,  oh,  so  sadly  ip 
their  song: 

“  Be  warned— be  warned  l” 


It 


'A  FATAL  WOOING. 


In  all  her  after  life,  she  could  always  hear  in  the  mur¬ 
muring  of  the  waves  that  one,  sad  voice,  whispering: 

“  Be  warned — be  warned!” 

Now,  she  was  only  conscious  of  handsome  Mr.  Ross  hold¬ 
ing  her  hands  tightly,  while  the  minister  of  God  impres¬ 
sively  performed  the  marriage  ceremony ;  she  had  but  a 
confused  remembrance  of  the  words  he  was  saying,  as  she 
made  her  responses. 

At  last  it  was  over,  and  the  hands  of  the  rector  were  laid 
upon  her  head  in  fervent  blessing. 

Surely  there  was  never  so  strange  a  wedding  as  this. 

A  few  rain  drops  fell  from  the  darkening  heavens — Izetta 
always  thought  they  were  angels’  tears — and  the  stars  died 
out  of  the  sky. 

If  those  silent  waves  could  only  have  whispered  to  her 
of  the  woful  secret,  which,  from  this  night’s  work,  was  to 
darken  her  young  life,  she  would  have  cast  herself  then  and 
there  in  their  cold  embrace,  and  been  gathered  to  happiness 
and  rest  in  their  bosom. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

REPENTED  AT  LEISURE. 

The  week  that  followed  seemed  like  a  strange  dream  to 
Izetta. 

Those  who  saw  the  young  gentleman  and  his  beautiful, 
clinging  girl-wife  wondered  at  them. 

There  was  a  world  of  passionate  love  in  the  girl’s  dark 
eyes ;  everyone  could  see  she  lived  on  his  words  and  glances ; 
her  sweet,  foreign  face  told  its  own  story.  A  child  no 
longer — love  had  made  her  a  woman,  devoted  and  tender, 
as  the  genial  sunshine  expands  the  bud  into  the  rose. 

Her  husband  made  little  pretense  of  affection,  yet  it  was 
not  in  human  nature  to  be  wholly  blind  to  the  ardent  love 
that  glowed  in  that  beautiful  face. 

Ulmont  was  beginning  to  realize  that  the  love  which  the 
Reverend  Paul  Illingsworth  had  predicted  was  coming  to 
his  young  wife ;  he  had  yet  to  learn  its  depths.  He  never 
dreamed  the  one  great  thought  that  filled  Izetta’s  soul  was: 

“  I  love  Alderic  so  dearly,  so  deeply,  he  must  love  me  in 
return.” 

The  week  had  hardly  passed  ere  Ulmont  repented  most 
bitterly  what  he  had  done ;  it  was  a  sad  fact,  yet  too  ter¬ 
ribly  true,  he  told  himself. 

The  vow  which  had  been  extorted  from  him  had  cost  him 
a  terrible  price. 

How  should  he  meet  Loraine,  who  was  his  betrothed 
bride,  and  tell  her  what  he  had  done?  What  excuse  could 
lie  offer  to  atone  for  her  outraged  pride?  He  knew  Horaipe 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


19 


loved  him  deeply  in  her  cold,  proud  way ;  he  knew  how  she 
would  come  forth  to  meet  him,  a  flush  on  her  beautiful 
face,  and  with  the  love  light  in  her  eyes;  his  ring — the  ring 
with  which  they  had  plighted  their  troth — sparkling  on  her 
little,  white  hand ;  how  the  light  would  die  out  of  her 
beautiful  eyes  when  he  told  her  what  he  had  done. 

She  could  easily  see  he  had  not  married  for  love,  he  told 
himself;  he  had  been  forced  into  it  through  duty ;  still,  the 
fatal  work  had  been  done — he  was  securely  married. 

Brave  as  the  young  man  was,  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
face  his  stern,  haughty  mother;  he  would  not  have  flinched 
in  the  foremost  of  a  battle,  with  shot  and  shell  falling 
thickly  about  him,  yet  he  did  shrink  from  the  fury  that 
would  gather  in  his  mother’s  eyes  when  he  spoke  the  words 
which  were  beginning  to  gall  like  wormwood  on  his  lips — 
he  was  married.  If  it  had  been  Loraine,  proud,  peerless, 
and  self-possessed,  how  different  it  would  all  have  been. 

If  he  chanced  to  meet  a  maiden  with  golden  hair,  his 
heart  almost  ceased  to  beat,  and  the  name  Loraine  would 
spring  unconsciously  to  his  lips. 

If  he  saw  a  handsome,  graceful  woman,  whom  everyone 
universally  admired,  or  heard  her  silvery  laughter,  he 
would  remain  silent  for  long  hours,  thinking  how  blind  and 
rash  he  had  been ;  thus  his  impulsive  recklessness  struck 
home  to  his  heart  at  last. 

It  was  a  strange  bridal  week. 

Ulmont  treated  his  young  wife  gently,  considerately,  but 
in  his  own  heart  he  cried  out : 

“  This  marriage  was  a  great  mistake  !” 

The  young  heir  of  the  Ulvesford  Mines  told  himself  he 
was  wretchedly  unhappy ;  yet  all  of  his  future  years  must 
pay  the  price  of  one  moment’s  impulsiveness. 

There  was  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  He  fully  re¬ 
solved,  however,  that  Izetta  should  not  suffer  for  it. 

One  bright,  sunlit  morning,  toward  the  close  of  that 
eventful  week,  Ulmont  asked  Izetta  if  she  would  like  to 
take  a  ramble  by  the  seashore;  the  sun  was  lighting  the 
water  with  a  thousand  arrowy  sparkles,  and  the  air  was 
vigorous  and  exhilarating,  with  a  sweet  perfume,  as  if  each 
zephyr  were  laden  with  the  aroma  of  the  distant  spice- 

troves  and  myriads  of  blossoms  over  which  it  had  lately 
ngered. 

Izetta  looked  up  into  his  face  with  glad,  shining  eyes. 

“  I  should  be  so  pleased  to  go,  Mr.  Ross,”  she  said. 

How  she  longed  to  call  him  husband,  but  Ulmont’s 
proud,  haughty  face  invited  little  familiarity. 

He  had  grown  quite  used  to  the  title;  indeed,  it  had 
never  struck  him  as  strange  his  beautiful  young  wife 
should  call  him  Mr,  Ross, 


20 


A  FATAL  WOOING: 


Woman-like,  Izetta  had  donned  her  prettiest  robes,  of 
which  he  had  purchased  her  quite  a  supply,  to  please  him. 
Ulmont  had  been  simply  surprised  at  the  great  difference 
dress  could  make  in  her. 

In  her  plain  dark  dress  and  crimson  cloak  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  child,  yet  he  was  forced  to  admit  she 
was  a  beautiful  young  girl  in  the  soft,  dark  plush  traveling- 
dress  she  wore,  which  fitted  her  so  perfectly ;  yet,  after  the 
first  surprise,  he  quite  forgot  to  notice  her  appearance  at 
all. 

For  quite  an  hour  they  promenaded  the  beach  in  utter 
silence;  those  who  passed  them  wondered  why  the  young 
man’s  face  was  turned  so  persistently  away  from  the  beau¬ 
tiful,  foreign  face  that  was  raised  so  wistfully  toward  his 
own ;  they  wondered  why  he  looked  far  out  over  the  sea 
and  sighed. 

Izetta  never  attempted  to  converse  with  him,  being  only 
too  content  to  answer  his  questions  if  he  chanced  to  address 
her. 

She  often  saw  him  take  from  his  pocket  a  packet  of  let¬ 
ters,  tied  by  a  dainty,  pale-blue  ribbon ;  some  of  them  were 
old  and  worn,  as  if  by  many  perusals,  and  once  she  was 
quite  sure  she  saw  him  gazing  long  and  earnestly  at  a  lock 
of  golden  hair,  which  he  replaced  with  the  letters  in  his 
breast-pocket. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  during  the*  short  week  of  her 
marriage,  she  addressed  him  voluntarily : 

“Do  you  like  golden  hair  very  much,  Alderic?”  she 
asked,  wistfully. 

For  a  brief  instant  Ulmont  quite  forgot  it  was  his  dark¬ 
haired  wife  who  asked  the  question,  as  he  answered,  en¬ 
thusiastically  : 

“It  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  the  crowns  of  woman¬ 
hood.” 

Ulmont  never  dreamed  that  Izetta  was  wondering  why 
God  made  her  own  curls  so  dark,  with  a  deep  pain  in  her 
heart,  while  her  handsome  young  husband  admired  fair, 
shining  hair. 

“I  will  show  you,  Izetta,”  he  said,  “how  gloriously 
shimmering  golden  hair  can  crown  a  beautiful  face.” 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  pearl  case,  half 
hidden  in  its  bed  of  purple  velvet.  Izetta  silently  took  the 
picture  from  his  hand. 

“  I  warn  you  not  to  be  enraptured,”  he  laughed.  “Jam 
the  artist,  so  you  see  it  is  by  no  means  what  it  should  have 
been ;  the  subject,  though,  is  worthy  of  the  grandest 
masters.” 

Izetta  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  the  picture,  drinking 
in  every  detail  of  that  exquisitely  perfect  face. 


A  FATAL  W001N& 


21 


A  strange,  numb  feeling  stole  over  her. 

She  was  to  remember  it  all  with  vivid  distinctness  in 
after  years.. 

The  picture  was  certainly  a  strange  one— half  reality, 
half  ideal. 

A  graceful,  tall,  white  lily  was  represented  on  the  pol¬ 
ished  ivory,  quite  in  the  center  of  a  vase  of  rare  exotics, 
while  upon  its  snowy  petal  was  the  rarest  face  Izetta  had 
ever  gazed  upon. 

A  face  pure  md  spiritual,  yet  blended  with  the  coldest 
pride,  from  the  perfect,  arched  brows  to  the  delicate  curves 
of  the  smiling,  sensitive  mouth,  so  like  a  cleft,  deep  crimson 
rose-leaf. 

The  eyes  were  a  large,  deep,  expressive  blue,  the  face  was 
perfect  in  contour  and  dainty  coloring,  crowned  in  a  halo 
of  golden  hair,  long  and  curling,  which  mingled  with  the 
lily’s  golden  calyx. 

Beneath  was  written  in  fanciful  design,  “  My  love.” 

Izetta  scarcely  knew  how  long  she  gazed  at  it.  Ulmont 
interrupted  her. 

“  You  are  pleased  with  my  fancy?”  he  said,  gently. 

“This  is  your  ideal  of  love,  Alderic,”  she  said,  softly; 
“it  is  very  beautiful,  yet  is  only  a  picture  from  your  im¬ 
agination,  is  it  not,  Alderic?” 

The  flush  deepened  on  Ulmont’s  face  as  he  answered, 
evasively : 

“  I  have  seen  such  a  picture;  it  was  one  of  a  few  choice 
ones  in  a  private  collection.  I  painted  it  quite  from 
memory.” 

“  It  must  have  impressed  you  strongly,  Alderic.” 

“  So  it  did,”  he  replied,  carelessly  enough. 

How  little  she  knew  every  lineament  of  that  beautiful 
face,  of  which  Loraine  Lorrimer  was  the  original,  was 
stamped  indelibly  on  his  heart. 

The  great  wonder  was,  how  was  he  ever  to  learn  to  forget 
her?  Izetta’s  hand  trembled  as  she  handed  the  portrait 
back  to  her  husband. 

Was  it  fate  that  caused  the  handsome  case  to  drop  from 
her  nervous  fingers  upon  the  sharp  crags  at  her  feet?  She 
uttered  a  startled  cry. 

There  was  but  little  damage  done;  the  face  was  unin¬ 
jured,  only  a  portion  of  one  of  the  corners  was  broken  off, 
which  fell  into  her  hand  as  she  stooped  to  recover  it. 

Izetta  could  not  just  then  account  for  the  sudden  im¬ 
pulse  that  led  her  to  preserve  that  little  jagged  edge  of  pearl 
so  carefully;  perhaps  because  it  had  belonged  to  something 
her  husband  had  prized ;  it  had  lain  in  his  hands ;  his  eyes 
had  gazed  upon  it. 


23 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


TJlmont  was  quite  amused  at  the  grieved  face  turned 
toward  him. 

“  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  Alderic,”  she  said ;  “I  have 
spoiled  your  beautiful  portrait,  your  pretty  love.” 

How  little  Izetta  realized  the  vital  truth  of  her  words 
Ah!  she  had  spoiled  his  love,  and  his  life;  yet  he  laughed 
gayly  at  her  sorrow.  Of  course  he  was  "sorry,  too,  but 
mistakes  would  happen ;  there  was  no  help  for  them. 

Ulmont  laughed  as  he  noted  how  a  few  pleasant  words 
had  brought  back  the  sunshine  to  her  eyes. 

She  came  up  closer  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  timidly  on 
his  arm. 

“Do  you  think,  Alderic,”  she  asked,  simply  as  a  child 
might  have  done,  “your  ideal  of  love  is  prettier  than  I? 
You  had  not  seen  me  then.” 

The  very  candor  of  the  question  amazed  him.  Looking 
down  into  those  starry  eyes,  he,  so  chivalrous  to  all  women, 
how  could  he  help  telling  her  evasively  that  her  face,  above 
all  others,  was  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world? 

As  he  looked  down  upon  her  he  wondered  if,  after  all, 
there  was  ever  any  possibility  of  his  becoming  really  in¬ 
terested  in  his  fair  young  wife. 

At  that  moment  a  sudden  impulse  seized  him  to  throw 
the  portrait  far  out  into  the  sea  and  the  letters  after  it. 

What  right  had  he,  now  that  he  was  bound  to  another, 
to  dream  of  the  fair  face  of  Loraine  Lorrimer,  or  to  gaze 
ruefully  upon  the  pictured  face? 

Had  Ulmont,  for  once  in  his  life,  obeyed  the  sudden  im- 

Eulse  that  sprang  from  his  heart,  the  greatest  tragedy  of 
is  life  would  have  been  spared  him. 

The  grand  old  name  and  honor  of  Ulvesford,  which  the 
young  heir  would  have  shielded  with  his  life,  would  never 
have  been  dragged  through  the  mire  of  dishonor,  and  this 
story  would  never  have  been  written. 

Then  a  strange  event  happened. 

When  Ulmont  had  parted  from  the  rector,  he  had  asked, 
as  a  special  favor,  that  the  Reverend  Ulingsworth  should, 
upon  his  arrival  at  Boston,  call  immediately  on  his  mother. 

Ulmont  knew  that  the  rector,  above  all  others,  was  the 
one  best  fitted  to  break  the  news  of  her  son’s  marriage  to 
the  stern,  cold  woman,  who  never  forgot  nor  forgave  an 
injury. 

If  she  would  pardon  him  and  receive  Izetta  as  his  wife 
Ulmont  had  decided  to  return  home  at  once:  that  was  the 
message  he  sent  her,  which  the  strange  workings  of  fate 
destined  she  should  never  receive. 

It  happened  in  this  wise: 

Ulmont  had  desired  the  rector  to  let  him  know  at  once 


28 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 

the  result  of  this  interview,  directing  his  communication 
to  a  small  station  at  the  cross-road,  which  they  should 
reach  late  in  the  week. 

If  favorable,  he  could  take  Izetta  direct  to  Boston,  if  not 
he  could  take  her  for  the  present  to  his  old  nurse  at  Silver- 
nook,  who  would  receive  her  with  open  arms  for  his 
sake. 

He  hoped  when  his  haughty  mother  saw  remonstrance 
was  useless  and  regrets  vain,  the  principal  difficulty  would 
be  removed. 

When  they  reached  the  station  at  the  cross-roads,  Ul- 
mont  received  a  note  which  quite  unmanned  him. 

A  letter  dated  two  days  previous,  hastily  written, 
awaited  him,  which  was  as  fellows : 

“Boston,  Thursday  morning — My  dear  boy:— if  you 
would  see  your  mother  alive  hasten  home  at  once  or  you 
may  be  too  late.  I  found  her  in  so  feeble  a  condition,  fear¬ 
ing  the  slightest  shock  might  prove  fatal,  I  dared  not 
broach  the  subject  of  your  marriage.  Leave  your  wife 
there  until  the  crisis  is  past.  I  will  be  at  each  train  to 
meet  you.  Your  faithful  friend, 

“Paul  Illingsworth.” 

Again  Ulmont  made  the  mistake  of  his  life  by  not  con¬ 
fiding  fully  and  unreservedly  in  his  young  wife. 

In  ten  minutes  the  train  started  for  Silvernook;  five 
minutes  later  he  could  catch  the  express  direct  to  Boston. 
He  had  not  a  minute  to  lose . 

He  hurriedly  explained  to  Izetta,  as  he  thought,  all  that 
was  necessary  for  her  to  know  at  present.  His  mother  lay 
ill,  perhaps  dying,  he  must  go  to  her  at  once,  while  she 
must  go  on  alone  to  Silvernook,  which  was  fortunately  but 
an  hour’s  ride. 

He  would  give  her  a  note  to  his  old  nurse,  whom  she 
could  readily  find,  who  would  receive  her  kindly  until  he 
came  for  her,  which  would  certainly  be  within  the  follow¬ 
ing  week.  1 

Ulmont  hastily  tore  a  leaf  from  his  memorandum,  wrote 
a  short  note  which  he  addressed  and  placed  in  her  hand, 
together  with  the  little  package  containing  the  money  her 
grandfather  had  left  her,  and  two  hundred  dollars  which 
he  happened  to  have  by  him. 

It  was  all  so  sudden. 

Izetta  struggled  hard  to  bravely  bear  the  separation 
from  the  husband  whom  she  so  madly  worshiped.  The 
next  moment  found  her  alone  on  the  train. 

Ulmont  watched  long  and  earnestly  till  she  was  quite  out 
of  sight,  the  sweet,  tear-stained  face  pressed  close  against 
the  window-pane. 


u 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


His  heart  gave  a  great  throb. 

“Was it  possible,”  he  asked  himself,  “he  was  learning 
to  love  his  young  wife  after  all?” 

Izetta’s  face  haunted  him  during  all  of  his  journey  home; 
he  quite  wished  she  was  by  his  side  again. 

How  little  Ulmont  Ulvesford  dreamed  under  what  pitiful 
circumstances  he  should  look  upon  her  face  again. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AN  EXPECTANT  BRIDE. 

In  the  midst  of  a  green  and  grassy  lawn,  thickly  studded 
here  and  there  with  towering  elms  and  stately  beech  trees, 
stood  a  gray-stone  structure,  half  hidden  from  the  main 
road  by  creeping  vines  and  intervening  shrubbery;  its 
moss-grown  turrets  and  gabled  roof  towering  toward  the 
sunshine — this  was  Lorrimer  Place,  one  of  the  finest  old 
mansions  to  be  found  in  the  suburbs  of  Boston. 

The  spacious  grounds  which  surrounded  it  were  a  model 
of  artistic  beauty,  from  the  miniature  lakes  on  which  the 
graceful,  white-necked  swans  glided  to  and  fro,  to  the  mar¬ 
ble  statuary  half  hidden  by  the  rare,  dense  foliage,  and 
rose-covered  arbors  which  extended  to  the  thickly -wooded 
glen  which  lay  beyond. 

At  one  of  the  windows,  from  which  the  heavy,  amber 
satin  curtains  were  looped  back,  stood  Loraine  Lorrimer, 
the  heiress. 

The  golden  sunshine  never  lingered  upon  a  fairer  picture 
than  she  made  in  her  morning  dress  of  creamy  lace,  which 
fell  in  graceful  folds  about  her  perfect  figure ;  she  looked 
what  she  was — a  queenly  young  girl,  one  born  to  com¬ 
mand. 

There  were  pride,  poetry  and  passion,  blended  in  each 
glance  of  her  blue,  flashing  eyes,  her  face  in  its  haughty, 
charming  repose,  was  simply  a  perfect  one,  from  which 
her  long,  golden  hair  was  pushed  carelessly  back,  a  spray  of 
white  heath  in  its  golden  waves,  fastened  with  a  diamond 
arrow. 

A  magnificent  solitaire  gleamed  upon  her  finger,  on  which 
her  eyes  often  rested. 

At  last  she  turned  from  the  window,  with  a  slight  shade 
of  disappointment  on  her  face. 

“  I  had  quite  expected  a  letter  from  Ulmont,”  she  said 
meditatively.  “  I  am  surprised  at  not  having  some  kind  of 
a  message  from  him.” 

Her  mother,  who  reclined  on  an  adjacent  divan,  closed 
the  book  she  held  in  her  lap,  with  a  smile,  as  she  replied: 

“Ulmont  may  count  himself  lucky  if  he  reaches  here 
by  to-morrow.  You  must  not  forget,  my  dear  Loraine, 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


S5 

how  very  uncertain  the  arrival  of  these  steamers  are  now* 
adays.  Young  people  are  always  impatient.  I  never  see  a 
young,  expectant  bride,  without  thinking  of- the  day  before 
my  own  wedding.” 

“Did  you  feel  a  strange,  happy  restlessness  that  you 
could  scarcely  explain,  mamma?”  asked  Loraine,  blushing 
rosily,  seating  herself  on  a  low  hassock  at  her  feet. 

“Yes,  and  I  was  much  like  you,  never  quite  satisfied 
unless  I  was  at  the  window,  watching  for  the  coming  of  my 
lover.” 

The  rose  bloom  deepened  on  Loraine  Lorrimer’s  flower¬ 
like  face. 

“You  are  mistaken,  there,  mamma,”  she  said.  “I  do 
not  expect  him  until  the  eventful  to-morrow.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  thought  of  the  closing  sentence  of  the 
last  letter  she  had  received  from  him;  he  had  written: 

“  I  shall  be  at  Lorrimer  Place  by  the  15th  inst. ,  positively, 
to  claim  for  my  bride,  the  sweetest,  fairest  girl  in  all  the 
wide,  wide  world.  My  sweet  Loraine,  time  nor  tide  could 
e’er  withhold  me.” 

The  superb  trousseau  a  princess  might  have  been  proud 
of,  had  arrived  the  day  before ;  then  Loraine  had  done  a 
foolish  thing ;  she  had  arrayed  herself  in  the  shimmering 
gossamer  robes  to  note  the  effect ;  even  clasped  the  pearls 
around  her  perfect  neck  and  arms,  and  fastened  the  veil  to 
her  golden  hair,  smiling  proudly  the  while,  as  she  thought 
how  pleased  her  handsome  young  lover  would  be  with  her. 

As  Loraine  stood  there  an  event  happened,  which,  though 
trifling  in  itself,  caused  her  a  strange  sensation. 

She  had  gone  to  her  jewel-case  to  consult  her  watch. 

“  How  strange,”  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  took  it  in  her 
hand.  ‘ 1  It  has  stopped !” 

It  wanted  twenty  minutes  to  eight.  Loraine  gathered 
up  her  bridal  robes  about  her,  stepping  out  into  the  corri¬ 
dor,  to  where  the  huge  old  clock  ticked  away  the  hours ; 
her  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat — the  pendulum  stood  still , 
watch  and  clock,  as  if  by  common  consent,  had  stopped 
on  the  self-same  moment — twenty  minutes  to  eight. 

Loraine  hastily  re-entered  her  boudoir;  she  was  not  su¬ 
perstitious,  yet  she  could  not  help  but  remember  the  story 
she  had  often  heard,  how  that  same  old  clock  had  stopped 
on  the  eve  preceding  some  great,  sorrowful  family  event. 
Still  she  did  not  like  to  remember  old  traditions  on  the  eve 
before  her  wedding-day . 

Pretty  young  bridesmaids  had  taken  full  possession  of 
the  hall.  “  Every  thing  should  be  in  perfect  readiness  on 
the  morrow,”  they  said. 

The  bride-cake  had  arrived,  and  was  really  a  work  of  art 
in  its  way. 


26  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

Merry  peals  of  laughter  filled  the  corridors  and  spacious 
rooms,  as  nimble  fingers  fashioned  the  great  pillars  of 
roses. 

“  One  wedding  makes  many.”  More  than  one  maiden 
secretly  hoped  that  some  faint-hearted  lover  would  take 
courage,  under  the  mystic  influence  of  the  occasion,  and 
who  knew  but  their  own  wedding-niglit  might  be  the  next 
to  follow? 

Full  many  a  happy  thought  was  twined  among  those 
roses,  those  sweet,  fragrant  roses,  that  could  keep  their 
own  secrets. 

Mrs.  Lorrimer  gazed  upon  her  daughter  with  all  a 
mother’s  fond  pride. 

“You  are  so  peerlessly  beautiful,  Loraine,”  she  said,  car 
ressing  the  young  girl’s  bright,  golden  hair.  “You  might 
have  married  a  duke  or  prince,  yet  you  have  chosen  love. 
You  have  wealth,  beauty  and  love;  truly  your  lines  have 
fallen  in  pleasant  places.’  ” 

She  kissed  her  daughter’s  upturned  face  and  left  the 
room,  leaving  Loraine  alone  with  her  own  happy  reflec¬ 
tions. 

At  that  moment  Katy,  the  maid,  appeared  at  the  door. 

4  4  If  you  please,  Miss  Loraine,  ”  she  said,  4  4  there  is  a  per¬ 
son  down-stairs  who  insists  upon  seeing  you,  although  I 
told  him  you  gave  the  strictest  orders  that  no  stranger 
should  be  admitted.” 

“  Did  he  give  you  no  card,  or  state  his  business?”  asked 
Loraine,  surprisedly. 

“Card!  oh,  no,” answered  the  maid,  with  a  slight  grim¬ 
ace.  44  He  is  down  in  the  servants’  hall  and  refuses  to  give 
his  name.  ” 

“That’s  strange,”  murmured  the  heiress,  reflectively, 
thinking  perhaps  it  was  some  poor  tena.it,  or  a  former  re¬ 
cipient  ot  her  generous  bounty ;  for  Loraine  was  as  capri¬ 
cious  and  generous  as  she  was  haughty  and  beautrrul. 

“What  kind  of  a  looxmg  person  is  he,  Katy?” 

“A  dark,  swarthy  man,”  answered  the  maid,  promptly, 
“  with  a  long,  dark  beard,  and  the  sharpest,  cruelest,  and 
blackest  of  eyes,  over  which  his  bushy  eyebrows  meet  in  a 
straight  line  across  his  face,  and  he  has  the  whitest  of  teeth, 
and,  indeed,  he  scarcely  reaches  to  my  shoulder — he  is  a 
dwarf.” 

“  It  is  Vatal,  the  dwarf,”  gasped  Loraine,  sinking  back 
in  affright  in  her  seat.  “  Quick,  quick,  Katy,”  she  cried, 
“bar  the  doors  against  him,  fasten  him  out;  let  him  not 
gain  even  so  much  as  a  foothold  in  the  hall ;  quick,  or  you 
may  be  too  late !” 

As  the  maid  sped  quickly  to  do  her  bidding,  Loraine  hid 
het*  face  in  her  white,  jeweled  hands. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


27 


u  Vatal’s  visit  seems  the  forerunner  of  some  impending 
evil,”  she  muttered.  “Is  some  cruel  blow  about  to  fall 
upon  me?  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  believe  it.  I  wonder  what 
could  have  brought  him  here,  the  day  before  my  wed¬ 
ding?” 

A  dark  shadow  fell  between  her  and  the  sunshine,  linger¬ 
ing  for  a  moment  only  on  the  opposite  wall,  upon  which 
her  eyes  were  fastened.  Loraine  knew  full  well  it  was  the 
shadow  of  Vatal,  the  dwarf. 

The  fair  young  heiress  little  dreamed  the  enraged  dwarf 
was  at  that  moment  shaking  his  finger  back  at  her  as  he 
muttered : 

“  You  have  had  your  fate  in  your  own  hands  to-day — I 
might  have  saved  you  and  yours,  but  you  scorned  my 
words,  barred  me  from  j  our  door — proud  daughter  of  a 
proud  race,  go  blindly  on  to  your  fate !” 

The  next  morning  broke  clear  and  bright,  no  bride  ever 
looked  out  upon  a  fairer  wedding-morning.  No  cloud  was 
in  the  blue,  smiling  heavens;  all  nature  seemed  striving 
its  best  to  put  forth  its  beauty. 

Even  the  little  robins  poured  forth  their  sweetest  melody, 
as  though  they  were  singing  their  hearts  out  in  their  song, 
as  they  gazed  up  at  the  fair,  happy  face  at  the  window 
with  their  little,  bright  eyes,  while  they  dashed  their  wings 
in  the  fountain’s  spray. 

“  How  bright  love  makes  the  world,”  laughed  Loraine; 
“ah!  who  has  so  handsome  a  lover  as  I !” 

She  hid  her  face  in  a  bouquet  of  fragrant  blossoms. 

“My  darling,”  she  whispered  softly  to  herself ,  “ how  I 
have  counted  the  long  days  of  the  year  that  have  passed ! 
Ah,  Ulmont,  my  love,  after  a  few  more  hours,  nothing  can 
separate  us !” 

She  wondered  why  the  word  came  questioningly  back 
upon  her  heart.  Nothing? 

Those  who  saw  Loraine  Lorrimer  that  day  wondered  at 
her  intense  happiness,  her  brilliancy  and  wit,  as  she  flitted 
here  and  there,  a  merry  group  of  laughing  maidens  follow¬ 
ing  after,  fluttering  and  chirping  like  robins  in  the  bright, 
gay  spring-time. 

Everyone  was  sure  Loraine  would  make  the  most  peer¬ 
less  bride  that  ever  was  seen. 

At  last  everything  was  in  perfect  readiness;  the  last 
touches  had  been  put  to  the  great  columns  of  roses  and  the 
fern-bordered,  scented  fountains,  over  which  a  thousand 
mellow  lights  twinkled  from  the  grand  chandeliers. 

The  magnificent  repast  had  been  laid,  and  in  the  spacious 
parlors  the  guests  were  already  beginning  to  assemble. 

%  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Jis  the  train,  bearing  Ulmont  Ulvesford  neared  Boston. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


28 

a  close  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  dark  horses  was  moving 
slowly  along  the  high,  narrow  road,  but  a  few  miles  distant 
from  Ulmont’s  home. 

As  they  reached  a  narrow,  abrupt  turn  in  the  road,  one 
of  the  two  occupants  of  the  carriage  touched  his  compan¬ 
ion  lightly,  on  the  shoulder. 

“This  must  be  the  spot,  Vatal,” he  said  slowly,  “  they 
will  be  sure  to  take  the  cross  cut  from  here.” 

The  one  addressed  as  Yatal  quietly  drew  rein,  replying: 

“No  better  spot  could  have  been  selected.  We  have 
everything  in  our  favor  if - ” 

“  Hark  you,  Vatal,”  interrupted  his  companion,  impa¬ 
tiently,  “  there  must  be  no  ifs  and  ands  in  this  matter;  it 
must  be  done !” 

“If  you  did  not  know  me  so  well,  Heath  Hampton,  I 
might  affect  amusement  at  this  needless  precaution,”  re¬ 
plied  the  dwarf,  doggedly.  “Did  I  ever  make  a  blunder 
out  of  anything  I  undertook  yet?  and  you  have  given  me 
some  rather  hard  cases  to  manage.” 

“Hush!”  muttered  the  other;  “no  more  of  this — it  is 
your  business  to  forget  a  transaction  as  soon  as  it  ends. 
This  case  is  of  greater  importance  to  me  than  all  those 
other  affairs,  and  one  on  which  your  lips  must  be  forever 
sealed.  I  am  a  desperate  man,  Vatal;  you  know  me  well 
enough  for  that.  Do  you  know  how  I  should  punish 
treachery?” 

Heath  Hampton  leaned  forward,  and  whispered  just  one 
word  in  the  dwarf’s  ear,  which  made  the  other  quail  as  if 
a  terrible  blow  had  been  suddenly  dealt  him. 

As  Heath  Hampton  leaned  forward,  the  long,  dark  cloak 
which  he  wore  fell  1  ack  from  his  shoulders,  and  through 
the  fast  gathering  twilight  the  faultless  evening  dress  he 
wore  and  the  flashing  of  the  jewels  upon  his  person  were 
easily  discernible,  and  from  beneath  the  heavy  slouch  hat 
which  concealed  a  handsome,  dark,  desperate  face,  a  pair 
of  dark  eyes  eagerly  scanned  the  road  in  the  distance, 
which  the  gathering  twilight  was  fast  obscuring. 

More  than  once  he  consulted  his  watch  with  growing  im 

Eatience,  which  he  held  in  his  white,  shapely  fingers,  as 
e  beat  a  tattoo  with  the  heel  of  his  polished  boot  on  the  soft 
carriage  rug. 

“  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  Ulvesford’s  arrival  on  this 
train — I  was  at  the  station  when  the  rector  received  the  tele¬ 
gram  to  that  effect,”  he  remarked,  presently,  continuing, 
aie  there  was  no  response  from  the  dwarf;  “you will  have 
close  work  of  it,  Vatal ;  you  will  have  ten  miles  of  good 
hard  driving  to  Lorrimer  Place — after  that  A 
“  I  car.  easily  make  it,”  answered  Vatal 
Then  both  relapsed  into  silence — Vatal  mentally  wondejr- 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  m 

ing  which  is  the  greater  villain  of  the  two — the  one  who 
plans  a  diabolical  deed — or  the  poor  wretch  who  executes 
his  bidding;  the  one  who  reclines  the  while  at  his  ease,  or 
the  hunted  criminal — fleeing  from  the  clutch  of  outraged 
justice. 

Heath  Hampton  exercised  a  strange  influence  over  the 
j  dwarf. 

Five  years  before  he  had  rescued  him — an  escaped  con¬ 
vict — from  the  minions  of  the  law — not  for  the  sake  of 
mercy,  but  for  his  own  designs;  lie  recognized  in  Yatal  a 
willing  tool.  He  had  not  mistaken  the  quality  of  the  terri¬ 
ble  wretch  whom  he  held  in  his  power. 

At  the  moment  a  shriek  of  a  far-off  train  fell  distinctly 
on  their  ears.  The  poor  horses,  as  if  scenting  danger, 
pawed  the  ground  in  fear,  uttering  low  whinnies. 

“Hold  those  horses,  Vatal,  I  say!’  cried  Heath  Hamp¬ 
ton,  with  a  muttered  imprecation,  as  the  poor  beasts  started 
down  the  road  at  a  sharp  gallop. 

“  I  am- trying  my  best,  sir,  but - ” 

“Out  of  the  way!”  cried  Hampton,  frantically,  and  in 
another  instant  he  had  leaped  into  the  seat  beside  the  dwarf, 
and  grasped  the  reins  in  his  firm  white  hands  with  such  a 
powerful  wrench  that  it  brought  the  trembling  horses 
quiveringly  back  on  their  haunches,  to  a  dead  standstill, 
panting  and  covered  with  foam. 

At  that  instant  the  sound  of  wheels  dashing  along  at  a 
rapid  pace  over  the  rocky  road  smote  upon  their  ears. 

Heath  Hampton  pulled  his  hat  further  down  over  his 
face,  while  the  terrible  smile  on  his  cruelly  handsome  face 
deepened  as  he  called  out  in  a  low,  steady  voice ; 

“Swerve  suddenly  to  the  right,  remember.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  HEIRESS. 

“  No  spirit  so  gay,  but  recalls  the  hour 
When  it  learned  what  all  must  know; 

That,  enshrined  in  every  human  heart. 

Lies  the  mystery  of  woe.” 

In  the  spacious  parlors  of  Lorrimer  Place,  the  guests 
were  already  beginning  to  assemble ;  this  was  to  be  a  gala 
night ;  a  festive  occasion  long  to  be  remembered  the  whole 
country  around. 

Loraine  was  seated  in  her  boudoir ,  while  Katy,  her  maid, 
was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  exquisite  toilet — - 
and  a  most  beautiful  bride  she  made. 

The  long  mirror  reflected  a  tall,  graceful,  willowy  figure, 
draped  in  shimmering  white  satin  and  rich  old  Lace.  IXa* 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


m 

monds  and  pearls  gleamed  on  her  snowy  breast,  and  in  the 
meshes  of  her  golden  hair. 

The  long,  sweeping  veil,  like  a  misty  cloud,  and  the  cor¬ 
onet  of  orange  blossoms  became  her  fair  beauty  exceed¬ 
ingly.  Never  had  Loraines  beauty  shone  out  so  brilliantly 
as  on  this,  her  wedding  night. 

A  minister  from  New  York  had  arrived  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  The  merry  laughter  of  the  throng  of  guests 
floated  up  to  Loraine  where  she  sat. 

“There!”  cried  Katy,  taking  a  step  or  two  back  toad- 
mire  her  work ;  ‘  ‘  you  are  just  simply  perfect.  I  shall  never 
forget  you,  Miss  Loraine,  as  you  look  to-night ;  but  a  slight 
touch  of  rouge  on  your  cheeks  wouldn’t  come  amiss — you 
are  just  the  least  trifle  too  pale — you  look  like  a  marble 
statue.” 

“I  hope  Ulmont  will  share  in  vour  enthusiasm,”  replied 
Loraine  smilingly ;  “I  believe  I  do  look  a  little  pale ;  to  tell 
the  truth  I  am  feeling  just  a  little  nervous;  it  is  time  Ul¬ 
mont  was  here ;  and  he  will  be  sure  to  want  to  see  me  before 
we  go  down  to  the  parlors.” 

“  He  will  be  in  raptures  when  he  does  see  you,  miss.” 

“  I  hope  so,  Katy,”  replied  Loraine,  gently.  “  If  I  please 
him  I  am  content.” 

The  little  ormolu  clock  on  the  mantel  chimed  the  hour 
of  seven.  Loraine  started,  with  a  little  cry  of  surprise. 

“  I  did  not  dream  it  was  half  so  late,”  she  said.  “Ul¬ 
mont  should  be  here  by  this  time — he  is  probably  here,  en¬ 
joying  his  last  bachelor  cigar  out  on  the  lawn.” 

Time  does  not  linger  long  with  the  present,  and  the  mo¬ 
ments  flew  with  quick,  winged  feet. 

Loraine  sat  idly  on  a  divan,  tapping  her  little  slippered 
foot  on  the  thick  velvet  carpet,  expecting  each  moment  a 
summons  from  her  lover,  but  the  moments  dragged  them¬ 
selves  slowly  by,  yet  no  summons  came. 

She  glanced  up  nervously  at  the  clock ;  it  wanted  a  quar¬ 
ter  of  eight,  and  yet  there  was  no  message  for  her. 

Joyous  mirth  below  was  at  its  height;  she  could  hear  the 
rippling  music  mingled  with  the  sound  of  fresh  young 
voices. 

Her  face  flushed  and  paled.  Suddenly  the  memory  of  a 
story  she  had  once  read,  of  a  bridegroom  who  came  not, 
came  slowly  back  to  her  on  this  her  wedding-night. 

“What  if  anything  were  to  happen?”  she  asked  herself. 
“Katy,  slip  down -stairs  and  see  if  Mr.  Ulvesfordhas  yet 
arrived.” 

Katy  hastened  to  do  her  bidding,  muttering  to  herself: 

“  I  wouldn’t  give  much  for  a  man  who  was  not  prompt 
on  his  wedding-night.” 

Down-stairs  she  went,  searching  vigorously  everywhere. 


A  JAiNL  WOOING. 


31 


but  Ulmont  Ulve^ord  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She  came 
slowly  back  with  a  troubled  face,  and  reported  her  non 
success. 

Loraine  Lorrimerwas  growing  extremely  nervous;  twice 
her  mother  had  anxiously  come  to  see  what  was  the  cause 
of  the  delay;  but  Loraine  had  begged  her  to  go  down 
among  the  guests. 

“Ulmont  must  be  here  very  soon,”  she  jaid ;  “leave  me 
alone,  mamma.” 

A  gentle  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  and  to  Loraine’s 
glad  “come  in,”  the  minister  entered. 

She  started  back ;  she  had  been  so  sure  it  w  as  U  Imont. 

“  My  dear,”  he  said  gently,  “  our  friends  are  getting  quite 
impatient;  I  have  been  making  inquiries  for  Mr.  Ulves- 
ford,  but  he  has  not  yet  arrived.” 

“Oh,  he  must  come  soon,”  sobbed  Loraine,  her  heart 
fluttering  strangely,  while  a  nameless  dread  and  strange 
foreboding  crept  over  her. 

Silently  the  minister  seated  himself  on  the  divan  beside 
her,  taking  her  small,  white  hand,  with  perhaps  some  such 
thought  in  his  mind  as  had  crossed  the  maid's,  yet  he  gave 
no  expression  in  words  to  his  thoughts. 

“  Ulmont  should  certainly  be  here  by  this  time,”  said 
Loraine,  striving  to  speak  calmly. 

“Patience,  my  dear,  patience,”  replied  the  minister,  pat¬ 
ting  gently  the  little  hand  that  now  lay  nervously  in  her 
lap,  “although  I  do  not  wonder  you  should  be  a  little 
nervous  on  your  wedding-night ;  it  "is  but  natural.  Still,” 
continued  he,  glancing  up  at  the  clock,  “it  is  yet  early — 
I  will  go  below,  for  I  expect  he  has  already  arrived.  ” 

Saying  which,  he  arose,  and  with  a  reassuring  smile  left 
the  room. 

“Katy,  Katy!”  she  whispered,  “see,  it  grows  late;  do 
you  think  anything  could  have  happened  him?” 

The  maid  did  not  answer,  she  knew  not  what  to  say. 
With  slow,  measured  chimes,  that  struck  a  strange  knell 
in  Loraine’s  heart,  the  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  the  hour 
of  eight. 

She  arose  from  her  seat  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  M 

Five — ten — fifteen  minutes  dragged  themselves  slowly 
Still  the  mirthful  hum  of  voices  floated  up,  as  if  to 

mock  her. 

“  They  are  growing  impatient,”  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  drew  aside  the  curtain  from  the  window,  and  gazed 
anxiously  down  the  road. 

The  moon  shone  brilliantly;  every  object  was  discernible 
— she  saw  nothing  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford. 

Twenty  minutes— a  half  hour,  and  yet  another  ten 

dragged  by. 


32  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

“Katy,”she  said,  “leave  the  room;  I  want  to  be  left 
alone.” 

As  the  door  closed  softly  after  her,  Loraine  threw  herself 
down  on  a  seat  by  the  window,  pressed  her  flushed  face  to 
the  cool  pane,  straining  her  eyes  eagerly  down  the  main 
road. 

“He  has  not  come,”  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands  in 
sharp  agony.  She  felt  bewildered ;  there  was  a  strange 
pain  in  her  heart,  growing  more  intense  each  moment. 

“Could  anything  have  happened?” 

Only  the  echo  of  her  own  voice  answered  her. 

Again  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door ;  this  time  it  was  a 
servant. 

“  Has  Mr.  Ulvesford  yet  arrived?”  asked  Loraine,  eagerly 
scanning  the  girl’s  face. 

“No,  ma’am,  but  the  minister  and  your  ma  says  may 
they  come  up  again  and  talk  with  you?” 

“No,  no,  no!”  groaned  Loraine,  pitifully,  throwing  her¬ 
self  down  on  the  divan  and  burying  her  face  in  the  cushions. 
“  I  don’t  want  to  see  anyone.  I  want  to  be  left  alone.  Do 
you  understand — all  alone.” 

The  girl  quietly  withdrew  from  the  room.  There  was  a 
strange  hush  in  the  voices  down  below. 

“  Oh,  he  must  have  come,”  she  said. 

With  bated  breath  she  opened  the  door  of  her  boudoir 
slightly,  and  listened. 

The  conversation  of  the  guests  below  was  plainly 
audible. 

The  words  of  a  young  lady,  seeming  to  come  from  close 
proximity,  caught  her  attention.  They  seemed  to  have 
been  shrieked  on  the  air,  caught  up  and  muttered  on  every 
breeze ;  they  were  simple  words,  jestingly  spoken,  yet  they 
“hit  a  mark  the  archer  little  meant.”  It  was  a  young, 
careless  voice  that  spoke  them,  but  each  word  pierced 
Loraine’s  heart  like  a  sharp  dagger. 

“I  do  not  think  the  bridegroom  is  coming.  Poor 
Loraine !  What  a  terrible  blow  this  must  be  to  her ;  such 
a  keen  disgrace.” 

There  seemed  to  be  a  general  murmur  of  assent  from  all 
below. 

Loraine  quickly  closed  the  door.  She  had  heard  enough. 
Her  brain  seemed  on  fire ;  her  senses  reeled.  She  drew  the 
bolt  of  the  door,  flung  herself  down  on  the  carpet,  and 
there  the  beautiful,  proud  young  heiress  wept  the  bitterest 
tears  that  ever  welled  up  from  a  human  heart. 

After  a  violent  storm  of  grief,  a  calm  usually  follows, 
but  it  was  not  so  in  this  case. 

The  sparkling  diamond  glowing  upon  her  finger — his  ring 
—-maddened  her  with  its  prismatic  glow ;  she  drew  it  from 


A  Fatal  wooing. 


83  • 

her  finger,  flinging  it  with  all  the  fury  of  her  strength  into 
the  furthermost  corner  of  the  room. 

She  laughed  a  little,  low,  wild  laugh. 

“I  will  fling  it  from  me  as  I  do  his  love,”  she  cried; 
“tear  out  his  image  from  my  heart  forever  and  ever.  Yes, 

I  say,  forever  and  ever.  ” 

Loraine  felt  a  wondrous,  strange  sensation  creeping  over 

her. 

Every  sob  ended  in  a  mocking  laugh.  The  strange  still¬ 
ness  of  the  house  puzzled  her.  Queer  specters  danced 
around  her,  and  with  their  *long,  bony  fingers  pointed 
mockingly  at  the  white  robes  and  bridal  veil  she  wore. 
How  dared  they  approach  the  secret  of  her  own  chamber? 
She  flung  back  upon  them  their  cruel  taunts  and  jeers; 
and  they  in  turn  mocked  her  every  look  and  word. 

“  Fools!”  she  cried.  “  Do  you  think  I  care?  What  if  the 
whole  world  were  gathered  down-stairs,  what  need  I  care 
if  they  do  know  he  did  not  come?  I  do  not  care,”  she 
sobbed,  her  voice  growing  louder  and  louder.  “  I  will  go 
down  among  them  and  be  the  gayest  of  the  gay ;  no  wit 
shall  be  more  brilliant  than  mine. 

“Yet,  why  are  they  here,  all  these  people?”  she  pondered, 
slowly.  “  What  do  they  want?  I  am  trying  hard  to  think, 
yes,  to  think ;  but  my  poor  brain  is  on  fire.  I  cannot  re¬ 
member  why  they  are  here.  Where  are  my  flowers  and 
fan?  But  an  instant  ago  I  placed  them  on  this  table.  No, 
they  were  on  that  stand.  I  do  not  see  them  in  the  room. 
Ha!  Katy  has  taken  them  down-stairs.” 

She  unbolted  the  door  and  rushed  into  the  hall. 

There  were  strange,  hilarious  laughter  and  burst  of  song 
heard  by  those  below,  that  froze  the  blood  in  their  veins ; 
the  next  moment  Loraine  Lorrimer,  the  beautiful,  spoiled, 
petted  child  stood  among  them. 

Her  hair  was  disheveled,  her  white  veil  torn  and  dis¬ 
ordered.  There  was  a  strange  pallor  on  her  face;  even 
the  ripeness  had  faded  from  her  lips,  as  she  fell  into  a  deep 
swoon,  which  mercifully  preserved  her  reason. 

At  that  moment,  a  horseman,  covered  with  dust  and 
foam,  dashed  rapidly  up  to  the  entrance  gate,  bearing  a 
telegram  in  his  hand  addressed  to  Loraine. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  country  round  was  rife 
with  the  terrible  news,  that  had  ended  in  a  fearful 
tragedy,  on  what  was  to  have  been  the  marriage-day  of 
the  young  heir  of  the  Ulvesford  Mines  and  the  peerless 
Loraine  Lorrimer,  of  Lorrimer  Place. 

He  had  but  that  day  returned  from  abroad,  so  the  story 
ran,  and  while  en  route  to  the  home  of  his  bride  to  be, 
where  he  was  to  have  found  his  mother  also  in  waiting,  he 
•was  intercepted  by  a  telegram  urging  him,  if  he  would  see 


u 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


his  mother  alive,  to  come  directly  home.  Rev.  Paul 
Illingsworth,  with  a  pair  of  the  fleetest  bays  from  the 
Ulvesford  stables,  and  a  driver,  had  met  Ulmont  at  the 
train.  They  were  last  seen  driving  at  a  furious  pace  alon# 
the  highway. 

Their  path  lay  through  a  high,  narrow  roadway  over¬ 
looking  the  sea  on  one  side,  high,  shelving  rock  on  the 
other.  ’Twas  there  the  terrible  tragedy  had  been  enacted. 

Two  vehicles,  approaching  each  other  from  opposite 
directions,  had  collided,  and*  the  carriage  containing  the 
young  heir  had  been  thrown  over  into  the  sea. 

In  an  instant  the  wildest  confusion  had  prevailed. 

Horses  nor  vehicle,  driver,  nor  the  white,  peaceful  face  of 
Paul  Illingsworth,  the  good  old  rector,  ever  rose  again. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  alone  had  been  recovered.  He  had 
sustained  a  terrible  fracture  of  the  skull  against  the  sharp 
rocks  as  he  fell.  It  was  hardly  expected  his  life  would  last 
until  they  reached  his  home,  some  four  miles  distant. 

While  the  mother  called  for  her  son,  the  long  halls  echo¬ 
ing  with  his  beloved  name,  and  fair  Loraine  awaited  him 
in  her  bridal  robes,  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  in  another  part  of 
his  home,  lay  hying. 

In  the  soft,  solemn  stillness  that  had  fallen  around  those 
who  watched  by  his  couch,  the  physician  bending  over 
him  had  said,  slowly  and  solemnly,  as  he  watched  critical¬ 
ly  the  motionless,  white  face : 

“  His  life  hangs  by  a  single  thread ;  if  he  lives,  his  reason 
may  be  partially  restored ;  never  wholly,  unless  by  a  vio¬ 
lent  shock,  which  might  cost  him  his  life.  If  he  lives  at 
all,  you  must  be  content.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FATAL  CONSEQUENCE. 

There  were  few  dry  eyes  among  these  wedding-guests 
assembled  as  the  contents  of  the  telegram  was  read  to 
them,  and  every  heart  throbbed  with  pity  for  hapless 
Loraine  save  one,  who  stood  leaning  gracefully  against  a 
marble  Psyche,  engaged  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Lor- 
rimer,  when  Loraine  had  so  unexpectedly  appeared  among 
them. 

The  dark,  handsome  face  of  Heath  Hampton,  for  it  was 
he,  grew  a  shade  paler  as  he  listened  to  the  telegram. 

“  Saved,”  he  muttered,  und^r  his  breath;  “  I  do  not  see 
how  it  could  have  been  possible.  I  have  failed — igno- 
miniously  failed !” 

“  Did  you  say  he  was  dying?”  he  asked,  taking  the  tele¬ 
gram  from  Mrs.  Lorrimer’s  nerveless  fingers. 

Yes,  so  it  read ;  his  life  hung  by  a  slender  thread, 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


35 


Silently  the  guests  quitted  the  mansion.  Heath  Hamp¬ 
ton  was  among  the  last  to  depart;  his  dark  eyes  roved 
eagerly  over  the  stately  mansion,  and  the  magnificent 
grounds  which  surrounded  it,  as  they  lay  dark  and  silent, 
bathed  in  the  shadowy  moonbeams. 

“If  he  dies,”  he  said  to  himself,  “all  this  may  yet  be 
mine.  It  is  worth  a  desperate  struggle,  and  I  mean  to 
make  it.” 

Of  the  past  life  of  Heath  Hampton  but  little  was  known. 
He  had  come  with  his  mother  to  Boston  some  three  years 
previously ;  none  know  from  whence. 

They  had  purchased  what  was  afterward  known  as 
Hampton  Place,  and  there  they  lived  in  stately,  lonely 
splendor. 

The  mother  was  haughty,  peculiar,  silent  and  reserved, 
shunning  all  intercourse  or  overtures  from  the  outside 
world. 

The  son  was  quite  the  opposite,  winning  and  refined, 
with  much  grace  of  presence  and  courtesy  of  breeding. 

He  spent  money  with  a  lavish  hand,  yet  one  who  was  a 
keen  observer  of  human  nature  could  see  he  was  utterly 
devoid  of  principle ;  one  who  only  lacked  the  opportunity 
of  becoming  the  deepest  of  villains;  yet  the  cloak  of  hypoc¬ 
risy  was  gathered  so  tightly  about  him,  the  outer  world 
little  dreamed  of  the  inner  blackness. 

Heath  Hampton  found  no  difficulty  in  gaining  ar  entree 
into  the  most  exclusive  society;  as  is  too  often  the  case,  no 
one  thought  of  inquiring  into  his  antecedents. 

He  had  lain  seige  at  once  to  the  heart  and  hand  of  the 
pretty  heiress.  It  had  been  a  close  tie  between  Ulmont 
Ulvesford  and  himself  as  to  which  was  in  reality  the 
favored  suitor. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Loraine  hardly  knew  herself 
just  which  she  liked  better ;  when  she  ultimately  chose 
Ulmont  Ulvesford,  all  hopes  of  reigning  as  master  of  Lorri- 
mer  Hall  fell  like  a  house  of  cards  around  the  schemer. 

He  had  never  loved  the  fair,  haughty  beauty,  yet  he 
had  vowed  to  win  her  fortune,  he  had  been  resigned  to  ac¬ 
cept  Loraine  with  it. 

Eagerly  he  watched  the  rapid  recovery  of  his  rival, 
bitterly  cursing  his  luck.  His  congratulations,  although 
being  anything  but  sincere,  had  the  essence  of  earnestness 
in  tone  and  look,  which,  although  a  spurious  article,  readily 
passed  for  the  genuine  coin. 

Loraine,  who  had  rapidly  recovered  from  her  terrible 
shock,  had  taken  up  her  place  with  his  mother,  whose  ill¬ 
ness  had  not  proven  so  serious  as  was  at  first  supposed, 
&t  Ulmont’s  bedside,  and  good  old  Doctor  Nelson  often  re 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


marked  his  patient’s  rapid  recovery  was  in  a  great  meas* 
ure  due  to  Loraine’s  careful  nursing. 

“  I  never  could  have  spared  him,”  she  would  say,  with  a 
bright,  happy  laugh,  while  Ulmont  answered  gently: 

“  The  life  you  have  striven  so  hard  to  save,  Loraine,  shall 
ever  be  devoted  to  you !  ” 

To  Ulmont  Ulvesford  there  seemed  to  exist  no  break  in 
the  love  he  had  always  borne  to  Loraine. 

Mrs.  Ulvesford  had  taken  up  her  vigil  by  his  bedside, 
refusing  to  be  comforted ;  all  the  love  of  her  life  was  cen¬ 
tered  in  her  handsome,  only  son. 

Once,  in  his  dreams,  and  she  saw  his  lips  move,  as  she 
bent  her  head,  she  thought  she  heard  him  whisper  a  sweet, 
fanciful  name;vit  sounded  like  “  Izetta.” 

He  never  uttered  the  name  but  once,  and  she  soon  forgot 
the  incident,  it  was  of  so  little  import. 

Slowly  Ulmont  Ulvesford  gathered  up  the  tangled 
threads  of  his  life  again ;  by  degrees  a  part  of  the  scattered 
past  returned  to  him. 

He  remembered  quite  well  his  travels  abroad,  the  people 
whom  he  had  met,  and  the  pleasant  ocean  voyage  home¬ 
ward  as  he  was  coming  to  claim  his  bride. 

He  remembered  he  must  have  passed  his  twenty-first 
birthday  on  the  ocean.  He  remembered  often  gazing  upon 
Loraine’s  portrait  in  the  moonlight,  but  beyond  this, 
Heaven  help  him !  he  remembered  nothing ;  leaning  ovei 
the  rails,  gazing  down  on  the  moonlit  waves  at  midnight, 
was  the  last  recollection  that  crossed  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s 
mind. 

The  following  events,  which  had  so  quickly  followed  in 
rapid  succession — how  he  landed,  or  the  slightest  remem¬ 
brance  of  the  accident  which  had  so  nearly  cost  him  his 
life,  were  entirely  obliterated  from  his  mind. 

Was  the  past  ever  more  to  be  as  a  sealed  book  to  him? 
Alas,  for  the  strange  complications  of  fate,  often  more  cruel 
than  death. 

His  vow,  his  marriage,  and  the  existence  of  his  fair, 
young  wife  were  swept  entirely  from  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s 
mind. 

Heaven  pity  him!  how  should  he  ever  know  of  them 
again? 

The  only  one  who  could  have  pierced  the  darkness  of 
that  benighted  brain,  and  whispered  to  him  of  the  broken¬ 
hearted  young  wife  who  waited  in  vain  for  his  coming,  was 
good  old  Paul  Illingsworth,  and  with  him  every  memento 
of  that  brief,  strange  past  was  swept  entirely  from  the  face 
of  the  earth. 

Owing  to  Ulmont’s  strong  constitution,  his  convales¬ 
cence  was  more  rapid  than  might  have  been  expected.  Ho 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


3 1 

was  amazed  when  they  told  him  the  fall  and  winter  had 
passed  away,  and  spring  had  come  once  more.  Everyone 
was  so  pleased  to  greet  the  young  heir  again. 

“  It  was  quite  worth  his  illness  to  see  how  much  people 
cared  for  him,”  he  said,  with  a  gay  laugh. 

He  was  the  same  happy,  careless,  debonair  fellow  as  of 
old ;  he  was  changed  only  in  appearance,  yet  that  change 
was  wonderful — his  most  intimate  friends  were  amazed. 

The  deep  hazel  eyes  and  laughing  mouth  were  the  same; 
but  the  dark  waving  masses  of  nut-brown  hair  were  gone ; 
fair  rings  clustered  around  his  brow  instead,  gold  as 
Loraine’s  own,  soft  and  shining. 

The  effect  was  marvelous.  Those  who  had  admired 
Ulmont  Ulvesford  before,  were  doubly  charmed  with  him 
now. 

Since  his  illness  he  had  been  given  to  strange  fits  of  mel¬ 
ancholy  reveries,  which  seemed  ever  seeking  some  thought 
quite  forgotten,  which  brought  with  them  a  vague,  inde¬ 
finable  pain;  he  could  never  tell  why  he  always  attributed 
it  to  some  vanished  fancy  during  his  illness ;  he  did  not 
care  to  remember  it.  Mrs.  Ulvesford  clasped  Loraine  in 
her  arms,  saying  the  happiest  day  of  her  life  would  be  the 
day  which  made  her  her  son’s  wife. 

Again,  through  the  cruel  mysteries  of  fate,  the  wedding 
preparations  weie  going  steadily  on.  This  time  it  was  con¬ 
cluded  that  the  ceremony  should  be  performed  at  the 
church  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  sun  was  shining 
and  the  birds  were  singing. 

“  I  could  never  endure  a  repetition  of  that  cruel  night  at 
Lorrimer  Hall,  when  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,”  whispered 
Loraine. 

“  You  shall  have  your  own  way,  my  darling,”  answered 
Ulmont;  “  your  will  shall  be  my  law.” 

So  it  was  arranged  that  the  wedding  should  take  place 
at  the  church,  and  be  as  quiet  a  one  as  was  possible. 

The  propitious  morning  dawned  at  last. 

At  an  early  hour  a  long  array  of  carriages  drew  up  be" 
fore  the  little  vine-covered  church  in  the  suburbs.  The 
sunshine  drifted  down  through  the  foliage  like  molten 
gold;  the  robins  in  the  green  branches  mingled  their  notes 
with  the  tuneful  bobolink,  the  sweet  scent  of  honeysuckle 
and  pink  clover  wafted  their  fragrance  over  the  hawthorn 
hedges,  the  sun  hinted  love  to  the  clouds,  the  birds  sang 
of  love  to  their  mates;  love  was  the  song  the  little  brook 
sang  as  it  danced  joyfully  over  the  white  pebbles — all 
nature  sang  of  love  on  this  pitiful  marriage  morn. 

Ulmont  would  allow  no  shadow  to  cross  the  brightness 
of  the  day.  If  one  of  those  strange,  brooding  fancies  he 


38 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


could  not  define  stole  over  liim,  he  shook  it  off  and  forgot 
it  in  watching  the  beautiful,  fiower-like  face  of  Loraine. 

Neither  the  sunshine,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  nor  the 
brooklet  warned  them  of  the  fatal  tragedy  which  was  about 
to  be  enacted ;  a,  tragedy  too  deep,  too  bitter  for  words  to 
describe,  and  they  went  on  to  their  doom  with  a  smile  on 
their  faces. 

The  sunshine  streamed  in  through  the  colored  windows, 
flecking  the  bride’s  soft,  fleecy  robes,  with  bars  of  crimson, 
purple,  and  gold. 

Ulmont  pressed  the  little  hand  tenderly  as  they  took 
their  places  at  the  altar. 

Suddenly,  and  without  warning,  dark  clouds  scudded 
across  the  sunshine,  the  soft,  summer  breeze  wailed  among 
the  tall  oak  trees  and  the  flowering  lilacs;  the  blossoms 
on  the  hillside  swayed  to  and  fro,  bending  their  hoads  be¬ 
fore  the  storm. 

The  distant  ocean  wildly  beat  the  shore  like  a  relentless, 
angry  spirit;  in  one  brief  instant  the  face  of  nature  had 
changed.  Thunder  rolled  across  the  darkening  sky,  and 
vivid  flashes  of  lightning,  following  each  other  in  rapid 
succession,  felled  many  a  stately  forest  oak,  whose  crash¬ 
ing  as  it  fell  to  earth  was  plainly  heard,  and  they  lit  up 
the  group  that  stood  before  the  dim  altar,  with  its  cold, 
bright  glare. 

Loraine’s  face  was  very  pale,  and  Ulmont  noticed  the 
little  hand  which  he  held  fluttered  slightly.  Ulmont 
Ulvesford’s  face  was  calm  and  implacable  as  a  marble 
statue.  A  half  hour  after  they  had  entered  the  dim,  old 
church  they  were  pronounced — oh,  cruel  mockery  of  fate 
— pronounced  man  and  wife.  Both  loyal,  innocent,  and 
trusting,  fate  was  dealing  them  a  bitter  blow. 

As  the  last  words  had  been  spoken  by  the  pastor,  which, 
as  they  firmly  believed,  bound  them  to  each  other  for  weal 
or  for  woe,  Loraine  Ulvesford  lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  the 
cold,  calm  gaze  of  Heath  Hampton,  while  behind  him, 
stealing  silently  away  like  a  grim,  foreboding  shadow, 
was  the  figure  of  Yatal,  the  dwarf. 


CHAPTER  VEX 

A  FATAL  JOURNEY. 

Six  weeks  abroad  had  passed  since  that  bright,  sunny 
morning,  when  Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  Loraine  had  stood 
before  the  altar  in  the  little  church.  They  had  visited 
France,  Italy,  and  sunny  Spain,  and  were  now  en  route  to 
Switzerland. 

“  Let  us  visit  the  Alps  last,  my  husband,”  Loraine  had 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


3fl 


said.  “I  want  the  scenes  I  love  best  to  linger  last  in  my 
memory.  ” 

Ulmont  was  loth  to  leave  the  blue  skies  of  Spain,  where 
the  olive  and  the  myrtle  ripen  luxuriantly  under  the  gold¬ 
en  sunshine. 

“Now  that  I  have  you  with  me,  Loraine,”  he  said,  “I 
could  linger  here  forever.” 

Had  Loraine  remained  in  Spain,  as  her  husband  so 
strangely  urged,  the  first  cloud  that  crossed  the  horizon  of 
their  wedded  life  might  never  have  risen. 

Together  they  went  to  Savoy,  that  marvelous  valley 
which  lies  under  the  bowlders  of  Mont  Blanc. 

Loraine’s  delight  was  as  rapturous  as  a  child’s  as  she 
culled  the  Alpine  roses  from  the  edge  of  the  frowning 
glaciers. 

Loraine  never  forgot  that  first  day  in  Switzerland,  or  the 
surprise  which  awaited  her  before  it  had  ended. 

ulmont  had  gone  to  visit  the  monastery  of  St.  Bernard. 
Loraine  had  remained  behind,  being  fatigued  with  the  day’s 
ramble. 

“You  will  not  be  lonely,  my  darling,”  questioned  Ul¬ 
mont,  encircling  the  slender  waist  with  his  arm,  and  draw¬ 
ing  the  golden  head  to  his  shoulder.  “If  I  thought  you 
would  have  one  lonely  moment,  I  could  enjoy  nothing. 
Your  sweet  face  would  rise  between  me  and  aught  else.” 

He  took  the  rosy  face  between  his  hands,  kissing  the 
proud,  rosebud  mouth. 

“Lonely,  oh,  no,”  she  replied,  with  a  blithe  little  laugh; 
“I  shall  have  too  much  to  think  of  for  that.  I  shall  draw 
this  couch  before  the  window,  and  watch  the  bright  stars, 
thinking  how  happy  we  are,  Ulmont.  I  have  been  think 
ing,  too,  of  so  many  little  plans  for  the  future;  some  of 
them,  perhaps,  very  foolish  ones.  I  will  tell  you  them 
when  they  are  quite  perfected,  but  not  now,  Ulmont.” 

“Very  well,  dear,  I  shall  try  to  bear  very  patiently  being 
shut  out  from  these  wonderful  plans,  but  remember,  my 
sweet,  deep  thinking  is  hurtful  to  youth  and  beauty; 
leave  that  to  those  who  are  older,  more  careworn,  and 
weary.” 

Below,  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  tourists,  who 
were  quite  ready  for  the  evening  jaunt,  in  the  hallway  be¬ 
low,  awaiting  Ulmont’s  coming. 

“  One  moment  more,”  said  Ulmont,  smilingly;  “  I  should 
like  one  of  those  roses  you  are  wearing,  Loraine ;  it  will 
seem  to  me  a  part  of  your  own  sweet  self.” 

As  Loraine  handed  to  him  the  coveted  bud,  which  she 
wore  on  her  breast,  the  leaves  fell  in  a  crimson  shower 
upon  the  floor  at  his  feet;  nothing  but  the  stem  remained. 
Loraine  dropped  it  with  a  startled  cry.  Ulmont  saw. 


40  A  FATAL  WOOING . 

even  in  tlie  shaded  lamplight,  how  pale  her  face  had 
grown. 

He  caught  the  white  hands  in  his  own,  clasping  them  to¬ 
gether  round  his  neck. 

“Nevermind,  Loraine,”  he  said,  laughingly:  “no  worn 
der  the  rose  preferred  total  extinction  to  repose  on  any 
other  resting-place  than  that  from  which  it  had  been  dis¬ 
placed.  I  fear  I  too  am  very  much  like  that  rose,  Lo¬ 
raine.” 

She  laughed  a  sweet,  low,  happy  laugh. 

“  I  wonder  if  every  husband  is  as  clever  a  lover  as  you 
are,  Ulmont,”  she  said. 

“  If  they  are  not,  they  certainly  ought  to  be.” 

“Then  Shakesphere  never  would  have  written:  ‘Men 
are  April  when  they  woo,  but  December  when  they  wed,’ y 
she  replied,  archly. 

“Your  sky  shall  never  change,  love,”  said  Ulmont,  ten¬ 
derly,  filling  out  the  sentence  that  he  read  in  the  limpid 
blue  eyes  upraised  to  his  own. 

Loraine’s  face  flushed  to  the  exquisite  hue  of  a  blush-rose ; 
her  beautiful  eyes  were  filled  with  the  sweetest  love-light, 
and  her  scarlet  mouth  was  curved  in  the  sweetest  of  smiles; 
she  was  so  happy,  her  heart  was  as  light  and  free  as  a 
bird’s. 

Life  was  so  full  and  rich — the  world  was  so  fair ;  if  that 
kind  of  a  dream  could  last,  earth  would  be  Heaven. 

Loraine  stood  at  the  window  watching  her  husband’s 
form  in  the  moonlight  until  he  had  disappeared. 

How  long  she  stood  there  wrapped  in  her  happy  dreams 
she  never  knew. 

A  slight  touch  on  her  arm  startled  her. 

“  I  beg  madam’s  pardon,”  said  a  tidy,  white-capped  maid, 
“  I  have  spoken  twice,  yet  madam  did  not  heed  me.  I  was 
to  place  this  letter  in  your  own  hands,  and  return  for  your 
answer.” 

She  placed  a  small,  white  envelope  in  Loraine’s  hand, 
courtesied,  and  was  gone. 

“I  wonder  from  whom  it  can  possibly  be?”  thought  Lo¬ 
raine  wonderingly,  glancing  at  the  signature.  “Heath 
Hampton,”  she  cried  aloud  in  her  surprise. 

She  was  amazed  at  finding  him  in  Switzerland. 

“You  will  forgive  me,  Loraine — Mrs.  Ulvesford,”  he 
wrote,  ‘  *  but  when  I  heard  you  were  stopping  here  I  could 
not  pass  Savoy  without  seeing  you.  The  sight  of  American 
faces,  and  especially  old  friends,  too,  are  really  a  treat  in 
Switzerland.  As  I  expect  to  leave  Savoy  to-morrow,  if 
agreeable,  I  should  like  to  call.  I  sincerely  trust  you  will 
grant  me  at  least  a  few  moments.” 


1 


A  FATAL  WOOING,  41 

At  that  moment  the  maid  reappeared. 

“  Tell  the  gentleman  I  will  await  him  on  the  portico,” 
she  said. 

As  Loraine  stepped  out  on  the  portico,  which  ran,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  Swiss  custom,  the  entire  length  of  the  build¬ 
ing,  accessible  from  the  ground  floor  by  a  flight  of  steps 
from  either  end,  a  gentleman  who  had  evidently  awaited 
her  with  no  little  impatience,  stepped  gracefully  forward, 
extending  his  hands. 

Tall,  stately,  self-possessed,  she  went  forward  to  greet 

him. 

“  Loraine,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  I  should 
say,”  bowing  low  over  the  slender,  white  hand,  “need  I 
tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you?” 

The  proud  blue  eyes  held  none  other  than  a  courteous, 
formal  greeting  for  him. 

“How  you  have  altered,  Loraine;  you  left  us  a  few 
weeks  ago"  a  bright,  merry  school  girl,  now  I  find  you — 
a  queen !” 

Loraine  merely  bowed  at  the  pretty  compliment. 

“  I  am  sorry  my  husband  is  not  here,”  she  said ;  “  he  will 
be  sorry  to  have  missed  seing  you  if  you  leave  Savoy  to¬ 
morrow  morning.” 

The  smile  on  his  handsome  face  darkened. 

Had  Loraine  been  more  worldly  wise  she  would  have 
known  Ulmont’s  absence  was  what  he  desired  above  all 
things 

“You  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  time,  Loraine,”  be 
said,  half-laughingly,  half -bitterly,  still  persisting  in  call¬ 
ing  her  by  the  old  name,  “  when  we  found  the  moments 
passed  quite  quickly  and  happily  without  a  third  party.” 

“  Of  course  that  is  all  different  now,  Mr.  Hampton,”  she 
said,  looking  up  surprisedly. 

“  Most  certainly  it  is,  as  you  say,  different  now,  Loraine.” 

He  was  perfectly  calm  and  unembarrassed;  while  Lo¬ 
raine  looked  away  over  the  moonlit  hills,  murmuring  some¬ 
thing  about  childish  folly. 

They  talked  of  home,  and  Loraine  told  him  how  happy 
she  would  be  when  she  reached  America. 

Their  conversation  was  the  exchange  of  thought  of  old 
friends. 

Loraine  spoke  of  their  travels,  and  of  the  people  whom 
they  had  met. 

Heath  Hampton  always  referred  to  himself  as  being  the 
loneliest  of  men. 

“I  cannot  understand  why  that  should  be  so, ”  she  re¬ 
plied. 

“  I  shall  never  care  to  look  upon  a  woman’s  face  again,” 


42 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 


he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  “  or  care  for  their  friendship  ;  1 
love  the  memory  of  the  old  ones  best,  Loraine.” 

Deep  in  her  heart  Loraine  was  wishing  her  husband 
would  return ;  the  conversation  was  growing  exceedingly 
irksome. 

“  I  have  thought  so  much  of  the  old  ones,”  he  continued ; 
“I  have  found  home  fearfully  dull,  I  sought  what  little 
comfort  I  could  find  abroad.  ” 

“  I  sincerely  hope  you  will  find  the  comfort  you  seek,  Mr. 
Hampton,”  she  replied,  with  the  artless  simplicity  of  a 
child. 

“  I  have  found  it  now  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,” 
he  said. 

Loraine  was  certainly  blind  not  to  have  read  the  mean¬ 
ing  in  those  dark,  reckless,  flashing,  eager  eyes,  bent  so 
steadily  upon  her  face,  so  deaf  that  she  could  not  hear  it  in 
the  modulation  of  his  low,  intense  voice. 

“I  am  pleased  you  think  so  well  of  Switzerland,”  she 
said,  simply. 

“  It  is  not  that,”  he  answered,  quite  impatient  that  she 
did  not  understand  him  more  fully.  “I  shall  always  like 
Savoy,  for  the  pleasant  associations  of  this  one  evening, 
Loraine.” 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

“Loraine,”  he  said,  sorrowfully  and  respectfully,  draw¬ 
ing  his  chair  closer  to  where  she  sat.  “You  must  not 
chide  me  for  what  I  am  going  to  say,  the  words  have  trem¬ 
bled  upon  my  lips  for  months,  I  must  speak,  if  I  am  never 
permitted  to  look  upon  your  face  again.  Can  you  tell  why 
I  left  America,  why  home  had  lost  all  charms  for  me,  and 
why  I  came  to  Savoy?” 

“  I  cannot  even  guess,”  she  replied. 

“  I  was  ever  haunted  by  a  beautiful  face — a  face  that 
was  dearer  to  me  than  my  very  life,  one  whom  I  would 
have  died  to  have  called  my  wife.  You  cannot  imagine 
such  a  depth  of  love ;  words  cannot  explain  it !” 

“  I  can,  and  do  fully  understand  such  a  love,  Mr.  Hamp¬ 
ton  ;  such  is  my  love  for  Ulmont ;  I  never  could  find  words 
to  fully  express  it.” 

It  was  well  the  shadow  of  night  fell  between  them. 
Loraine  Ulvesford  would  have  started  back  in  horror  had 
she  beheld  the  terrible  expression  on  the  darkly-handsome 
face  turned  from  her,  or  could  have  probed  the  terrible  re¬ 
solve  that  lay  brooding  in  his  heart. 

That  one  answer  Loraine  had  spoken,  forged  the  last  link 
in  the  fatal  chain  of  his  thoughs. 

Had  she  breathed  those  words  standing  near  a  cliff,  in 
bitter  anger,  maddened  at  the  thought  of  the  wealth 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  48 

that  might  have  been  his  had  she  hut  married  him,  he  could 
not  have  answered  for  what  he  might  have  done. 

“  Your  husband  possesses  a  jewel  in  you,  Loraine;  on© 
whose  rare  purity  is  a  blessing  to  the  sex.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  clasped  quickly  both  her  small,  white 
hands  that  lay  idly  in  her  lap. 

At  that  opportune  moment  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  with  light, 
bouyant  tread,  sprang  lightly  up  the  steps,  appearing 
suddenly  before  them. 

As  he  glanced  at  the  dark,  handsome  face  of  Heath 
Hampton,  bowing  low  over  Loraine’s  hands,  he  turned 
white  to  the  very  lips. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

JEALOUSY. 

Ulmont’s  amazement  was  scarely  exceeded  by  his  an- 
novance  upon  recognizing  Heath  Hampton,  whom  he  had 
left  in  Boston,  bending  over  his  wife’s  hand  in  far-off  Swit¬ 
zerland,  in  that  lover-like  fashion;  it  reminded  him  too 
forcibly  of  the  days  when  neither  of  them  had  been  quite 
sure  as  to  which  was  the  favored  one  in  .Loraine’s  eyes. 

A  sudden,  keen,  quick  pang  of  iealousy  leaped  into  his 
heart;  that  torch,  which,  once  lighted,  causes  many  a  con¬ 
flagration  in  hitherto  peaceful  homes. 

Ulmont  had  quite  forgotten  the  old,  unhappy  forebodings 
that  had  enfolded  him. 

Heath  Hampton’s  face,  dark,  flashing  and  brilliant, 
filled  him  with  a  strange  sense  of  pain. 

He  had  thought  he  had  Loraine  all  to  himself. 

He  found  himself  wondering  if  it  was  merely  a  chance 
accident  that  brought  Heath  Hampton  just  then  to  Swit¬ 
zerland.  * 

Ulmont  knew,  although  they  had  been  rivals,  as  his 
countryman  he  must  greet  him  at  least  courteously,  if  not 
cordially. 

The  Ulvegfords  were  a  deep-loving  race,  self-willed  and 
exacting. 

I  could  never  accept  half  a  heart,”  Ulmont  had  often 
said.  “  I  must  have  the  whole,  or  I  relinquish  all.  One 
whom  I  love  must  give  not  even  one  thought  to  another.” 

“  My  dear  boy,  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  in  Switzer¬ 
land,  I  imagine,”  Hampton  said,  with  a  warm,  hearty 
hand-shake,  “  but  I  assure  you  not  more  so  than  I  myself 
at  being  here.  I  heard  you  were  at  Savoy,  and  I  promised 
myself  the  pleasure  of  calling.” 

It  was  only  accidental  then. 

Ulmont  felt  relieved. 

JPLeath  Hampton  possessed  the  happy  faculty  of  making 


44 


a  fatal  wooing. 


himself  exceedingly  agreeable  to  men  as  well  as  the  fair 
sex,  and  before  the  evening  wore  away,  Ulmont  was  seri¬ 
ously  pondering  if  he  did  not  do  him  an  injustice  by  har¬ 
boring  the  suspicions  which  for  a  brief  time  had  disturbed 
him. 

Loraine  had  excused  herself  and  retired  to  her  own  room, 
leaving  them  alone  together  to  chat  over  old  times  as  they 
puifed  their  Havanas,  and  by  the  time  Heath  Hampton 
parted  from  Ulmont,  it  was  agreed  he  should  stay  the 
following  week  at  Savoy,  making  one  of  their  party  and 
returning  home  to  America. 

A  deep,  meaning  smile  hovered  for  an  instant  about 
Heath  Hampton’s  mouth. 

‘‘Capital,”  he  muttered,  under  his  breath,  meanwhile 
inwardly  wondering  at  Ulmont’s  trustfulness,  who  little 
dreamed  that  the  serpent,  who  had  slowly  but  surely 
gained  an  entrance  into  this  peaceful  Eden,  would  turn 
upon  the  hand  that  had  given  it  shelter. 

“So,  so!”  muttered  Hampton  that  night,  as  he  slowly 
retraced  his  steps  to  his  lodgings,  “I  had  not  expected 
such  an  easy  victory — the  leaven  works  well ;  Loraine  shall 
reach  America,  and  so  shall  I;  but  mark  me,  I  have  sworn 
by  the  fortune  he  swept  from  my  grasp,  the  green  vales  of 
Switzerland  shall  be  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  tomb,  and  these 
icy  towers  his  monument!” 

Meanwhile  Ulmont  was  wondering,  as  he  entered  the 
room  where  she  sat,  what  she  would  say  when  he  told  her 
Heath  Hampton  had  decided  to  remain  in  Savoy,  accom¬ 
panying  them  on  their  homeward  trip  to  America. 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  and  dismay  broke  from  Lo- 
raine’s  lips,  which  she  instantly  repressed.  No  matter 
what  her  own  secret  feelings  were  on  the  subject,  she  be¬ 
lieved  she  had  no  right  to  raise  an  objection  if  her  husband 
really  desired  his  presence.  While  Ulmont,  as  he  watched 
Loraine’s  face  narrowly,  was  thinking: 

“  How  foolish  I  was,  after  all,  to  ever  imagine  my  Lo¬ 
raine  cared  for  Heath  Hampton.” 

The  week  that  followed  was  the  most  eventful  one  that 
had  ever  come  to  the  gay,  careless  life  of  Ulmont  Ulves- 
ford ;  a  week  which  brought  the  bitterest  of  bitter  fruits, 
which  were  to  be  deep  sown  in  his  heart. 

There  were  strange  whisperings  among  the  tourists,  who 
watched  with  darkening  brows  the  assiduous  attention  the 
dark-browed  stranger  paid  the  beautiful,  stately,  fair-haired 
wife. 

Was  the  young  husband  mad,  they  asked  themselves,  to 
permit  it?  Why  was  he  so  blind? 

Everyone,  even  the  most  exacting,  could  see  that  the 
lair  young  wife,  in  action,  thought  and  word,  was  as  pure 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  46 

as  the  white  lilies  that  lay  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  the 
stream  down  in  the  smiling  valley. 

She  was  utterly  innocent  and  ignorant  of  the  world  of 
sin,  or  the  flowery  paths  that  led  to  its  horrible -brinks 

One  friend,  more  daring  than  th<j  rest,  who  had  a  fair 
young  bride  of  his  own,  whom  he  quite  idolized,  ventured 
to  remonstrate  with  Ulmont  in  a  mild  way 

“  I  have  heard  Mr.  Hampton  was  quite  attached  to  your 
wife  at  one  time,  Mr.  Ulvesford.”  he  sard,  carelessly. 

“That  was  all  nonsense,”  laughed  Ulmont,  good-hu¬ 
moredly;  “  he  had  quite  a  fancy  for  my  wife  at  one  time, 
I  believe.  We  have  often  laughed  over  our  wine  about  it 
since.” 

“  There  are  many  men  whose  first  love  is  the  one  grand, 
supreme  passion  of  their  lives,”  remarked  Wylmer  Lee, 
gravely. 

“How  seriously  you  are  inclined  to  treat  such  trifling 
matters,”  said  Ulmont,  thoughtfully,  lighting  his  cigar,  and 
waving  the  curling  rings  of  smoke  away  with  his  hand. 

“  Contemplation  makes  me  serious,”  remarked  his  fellow- 
traveler;  “I  have  seen  much  of  life  in  my  time.  Why, 
do  you  know,”  he  continued,  energetically,  “I  would  as 
soon  think  of  a  sleek  tiger  creeping  stealthily  into  the  fold 
where  my  lambs  were  treasured,  as  to  see  an  old  lover  hold¬ 
ing  my  wife’s  hand,  or  gazing  into  her  eyes,  with  poisonous 
adulation  upon  his  lips.” 

“  A  man’s  wife  should  be  held  above  all  reproach,  all  cen¬ 
sure;  she  whom  he  trusts  with  his  life’s  happiness,  can 
guard  his  honor,”  responded  Ulmont,  proudly;  but  even 
though  he  spoke  confidently,  a  thousand  doubts  and  fears 
were  busy  with  his  imagination. 

He  did  not  care  to  admit,  even  to  himself,  he  had  not 
acted  wisely  in  permitting  his  wife’s  old  lover  to  join  their 
party. 

Had  not  the  past  proven  conclusively  which  one  of  them 
Loraine  had  loved? 

“Pshaw!”  he  said  to  himself.  “  How  absurd  of  me  to 
indulge  such  ridiculous  fancies !  ” 

Still,  the  arrow  had  pierced  his  heart;  he  was  a  prey  to 
conflicting  emotions. 

There  is  nothing  that  rends  the  heart,  that  destroys  all 
hope,  that  ruins  a  life  by  arousing  the  keenest  sorrow  so 
quickly  as  the  pangs  of  jealousy,  the  worst  disease  which 
can  afflict  the  human  race. 

Ulmont  would  have  died  before  he  would  have  doubted, 
fqr  an  instant,  the  beautiful,  peerless  Loraine;  still,  he 
realized  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  playing  with  fire  that 
had  once  burned  with  a  passionate  flame. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


46 

How  could  lie  tell  that  love  for  his  beautiful  Loraine  did 
not  still  slumber  in  Heath  Hampton’s  heart? 

He  remembered  vividly  how  the  Count  de  Risnar,  a  per¬ 
sonal  friend  of  Hampton’s,  had  engaged  him  so  often  for 
hours  at  a  time  in  his  subtle;  graceful  way,  while  Heath 
Hampton  invariably  talked  with  Loraine. 

On  Ulmont’s  previous  visit  to  France  he  had  met  the 
Count  de  Risnar ;  once  they  had  differed  slightly  in  opinion 
on  some  trifling  matter;  those  who  heard  the  debate  were 
unanimously  in  favor  of  Ulmont’s  theory;  the  count  had 
submitted  with  the  courtly  grace  of  his  race,  but  then  and 
there  he  had  registered  a  bitter  vow  of  vengeance  against 
the  young  American. 

He  would  humble  him  yet,  in  the  very  dust  at  his  feet. 
He  meant  to  keep  his  word,  he  was  shrewd  and  far-seeing. 

When  he  learned  Heath  Hampton  had  once  been  the 
lover  of  Loraine  Ulvesford,  he  saw  a  way  to  work  out  that 
revenge. 

He  well  knew  the  crudest  blow  he  could  inflict  upon 
Ulmont’s  haughty  heart,  was  through  his  beautiful  young 
bride. 

Still,  with  all  his  suave  manners  and  subtle  arts,  the 
count  owned  to  himself  he  was  not  more  cunning  than 
Heath  Hampton. 

This  was  the  link  that  bound  these  two  so  closely. 

Strange  thoughts  had  found  lodgment  in  Ulmont’s  breast 
since  that  conversation  with  Wylmer  Lee. 

Could  it  be  his  imagination  only  that  his  friends  dropped 
their  voices  to  almost  a  whisper  when  he  came  unexpect¬ 
edly  among  them,  or  ceased  speaking  altogether? 

Of  what  were  they  talking?  Was  it  possible  they,  too, 
thought — but,  pshaw !  Why  give  himself  unnecessary  an¬ 
noyance? 

It  was  a  lovely  day  preceding  their  departure  for 
America.  Ulmont  never  forgot  that  terrible  day ;  it  stood 
out  clear  and  distinct  upon  his  mind  for  many  a  year  after¬ 
ward. 

That  morning  he  had  gone  with  Loraine  to  see  the  sun 
rise  for  the  last  time  on  the  Alps. 

The  first  golden  rays  were  peeping  above  the  huge,  icy 
pillars,  lighting  them  up  with  a  thousand  arrowy  sparkles; 
a  waterfall,  struck  by  its  rays,  fell  in  fiery  orange  foam 
down  the  red  and  blue  sparkling  walls  of  a  beautiful  glacier, 
losing  itself  in  the  still  bluer  mist  of  the  double  dome  be¬ 
low,  that  seemed  to  spread  out  like  transparent,  purple 
glass,  gradually  melting  into  glowing  crimson  as  the  sun’s 
rays  pierced  the  ravine  below. 

Loraine’s  hands  were  clasped  within  his  own ;  they  were 
trembling  slightly,  and  her  face  was  very  pala 


A  FATAL  WOOING,  47 

“  I  wish  you  had  not  brought  me  to  this  spot  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  Ulmont,”  she  whispered. 

“Why,  my  love?’’  he  asked,  wonderingly.  “  This  is  the 
grandest  and  most  sublime  spot  on  the  Alps.” 

“If  I  tell  you  why,  you  will  not  laugh  at  me,  my  hus¬ 
band?” 

For  answer  he  drew  the  golden  head  closer  to  his  breast, 
kissing  the  rosy  mouth. 

“Certainly  not,  my  sweet.” 

“I  saw  this  very  spot  in  my  dreams  last  night,”  she  an¬ 
swered,  slowly.  “I  thought  you  were  standing  on  this 
very  spot ;  others  were  around  you,  their  dark  faces  be¬ 
tween  you  and  the  sunlight.  Your  face  was  white,  and 
you  called  out  suddenly  :  ‘Loraine,  my  wife,  where  are 
you?’  As  I  ran  to  you  with  outstretched  hands,  a  woman’s 
face  came  between  us,  a  proud,  beautiful,  foreign  face, 
with  scornful  lips  and  flashing  eyes.  As  I  turned  from 
her  in  wonder,  the  beautiful  face  had  vanished,  the  cold 
pillars  of  ice  seemed  to  close  over  you,  my  husband,  and  I 
saw,  standing  there,  only  Heath  Hampton,  while  beside 
him,  a  cruel  smile  on  his  lips,  stood  a  dark-browed  stranger. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  DUEL  IN  THE  ALPS. 

All  the  day  that  followed,  Heath  Hampton  hovered  like 
a  persistent  shadow  around  Loraine,  who  was  quite  an¬ 
noyed  at  his  attention. 

“Why,”  she  asked  herself,  sorrowfully,  “did  Ulmont, 
her  husband,  seem  to  prefer  the  society  of  the  Frenchman 
to  her  own,  leaving  her  to  spend  the  lonely  hours  as  best 
she  might  in  the  society  of  Heath  Hampton?” 

Ths  scenery  from  Loraine’s  window  was  sublime;  yet,  as 
she  stood  there  in  her  royal,  azure-tinted  robe,  the  breeze 
toying  with  the  soft  lace  that  encircled  her  throat,  and 
loosened  her  golden  hair  in  which  a  spray  of  blossoms 
clung,  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  beautiful  sights  upon 
which  her  eye  rested ;  she  had  pushed  aside  her  books,  the 
very  sunlight  and  the  flowers  tired  her ;  she  was  glad,  she 
told  herself,  she  was  to  start  for  America  on  the  morrow. 

Loraine  was  writing  for  her  husband ;  she  had  no  heart, 
no  thought  away  from  him,  and  the  hours  seemed  dull  and 
long  which  parted  them. 

Again  she  took  up  her  book,  but  the  story  had  no  power 
to  charm  her. 

She  laid  her  fair  young  cheek  on  the  crimson  cover,  with 
the  question  on  her  red  lips : 

“Why  does  Ulmont  not  come  to  me?” 


48  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

Ah !  it  was  well  for  Loraine  Ulvesford  she  did  not  know 
why. 

In  another  part  of  the  building,  where  the  tourists 
smoked  their  cigars,  watching  the  snow-covered  crags 
above  and  the  crags  beneath,  Heath  Hampton  sat  with  a 
party  of  friends,  including  De  Risnar. 

Ulmont  came  among  the  group  quite  unnoticed,  so  en¬ 
grossed  were  they  in  the  recital  of  some  story  from  the 
reminiscence  of  Hampton’s  exploits. 

“Ah,  yes,  gentlemen,”  continued  Hampton,  buoyantly, 
“at  that  time  I  stood  in  high  favor  with  the  peerless 
beauty.” 

There  were  the  fumes  of  wine  on  his  breath  and  a  reck¬ 
less  glance  in  his  eye. 

De  Risnar,  alone,  of  all  the  group,  had  noticed  Ulmont’s 
approach.  4 

“  It  is  a  thousand  pities  you  did  not  marry  her  then,  but 
I  suppose  there  is  a  double  charm  about  her  now  that  she 
is  beyond  your  reach,  eh,  Hampton?”  remarked  some  lo¬ 
quacious  bystander. 

A  low,  sardonic  laugh  broke  from  Heath  Hampton’s  lips, 
a  laugh  that  froze  the  blood  in  Ulmont’s  heart  as  he  heard  it. 

“Loraine  will  always  be  the  most  charming  girl  in  the 
world  in  nry  eyes;  let  us  drink,  gentlemen,”  he  cried,  “to 
the  fair  beauty  of  Loraine !” 

A  gentleman  sitting  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  and  who 
would  bear  no  more,  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  he  was  too  late ; 
a  strong  arm  forced  him  back,  as  a  face  white  as  death 
flashed  past  him,  crying  out : 

“Sit  down,  Wylmer,  thank  God,  I  am  here  to  protect  my 
wife’s  fair  name !  ’ 

The  next  instant  Heath  Hampton  had  received  a  sting¬ 
ing  blow  in  the  face,  that  sent  him  reeling  into  De  Risn^ir’s 
arms. 

“  Now,  coward  that  you  are,”  cried  Ulmont,  white  to  the 
very  lips,  “apologize  this  instant  for  taking  my  wife’s 
name  thus  wantonly  upon  your  base  lips,  or  your  life  shall 
pay  the  forfeit !” 

“Never,”  cried  Heath  Hampton,  recklessly,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  and  a  baleful  light  gleaming  in  his  eyes.  “  I  re¬ 
peat  it.  Let  us  drink  to  the  peerless  Loraine !” 

“Ulvesford,  for  Heaven’s  sake  come  away,”  cried  Wyl¬ 
mer  Lee,  holding  him  back  by  main  force,  but  he  might  as 
well  have  spoken  to  the  winds. 

Heath  Hampton  by  this  time  had  recovered  himself,  and 
hastily  taking  his  glove  from  his  pocket,  his  eyes  flashing 
with  a  glaring,  triumphant  gleam,  he  flung  it  in  Ulmont’s 
face. 

“  I  accept  your  challenge,”  said  Ulmont,  in  a  clear,  ring' 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  49 

mg  voice,  having  regained  his  composure;  “and,”  he  con¬ 
tinued,  briefly,  “  this  duel  must  be  fought  at  once!” 

“  That  suits  me  perfectly,”  answered  Hampton. 

“I  will  meet  you  in  fifteen  minutes  et  any  place  you 
may  choose  to  name;  is  the  time  too  short?”  asked  Ulmont, 
haughtily.  “Say  an  hour  from  now,  in  the  old  abbey 
above  the  village.  ” 

Ulmont  bowed  haughtily,  while  Hampton  concluded : 

“  Our  seconds  will  attend  to  the  rest.” 

Again  Ulmont  bowed  coldly. 

“  Wylmer,”  he  said,  turning  to  Lee,  who  stood  near  him, 
“  I  am  in  need  of  a  friend  to-night — can  I  rely  upon  you?” 

Wylmer  Lee  pressed  his  hand  warmly — that  one  hearty 
clasp  without  words  was  enough.  Ulmont  Ulvesford 
knew  that  he  would  stand  by  him  in  life — or  in  death,  if 
need  be. 

This  was  the  ultimatum  Wylmer  Lee  had  long  foreseen. 
*  *  *  *  * 

The  dark  sky  was  star-set,  and  a  full  moon  had  risen, 
bathing  the  snow-covered  grounds  and  ruins  upon  the  ex¬ 
treme  heights  with  a  silvery  radiance,  giving  the  pictur¬ 
esque  spot,  upon  which  an  awful  tragedy  was  soon  to  be 
enacted,  a  qui,et,  peaceful  look. 

It  was  a  lonely,  romantic  spot,  high  up  on  the  summit  of 
the  Alps.  No  sound  could  be  heard  save  the  whistling  of 
the  wind  through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  through 
the  crumbling,  ivy-grown  walls  and  deserted  halls  of  the 
once  grand  old  abbey,  that  had  fallen  into  ruin. 

The  spot  chosen  for  the  duel  was  a  clearing  in  the  midst 
of  the  ruins. 

On  one  side  were  high,  perpendicular,  icy  crags ;  on  the 
other  a  steep,  slippery  descent;  its  only  canopy,  the  starry 
heaven  and  the  meeting  branches  of  the  dark  pine  trees. 

Suddenly  footsteps  sounded  on  the  crisp,  crackling  snow, 
and  two  dark  figures  halted  at  the  place  indicated. 

A  low  cry,  which  Ulmont  instantly  suppressed,  sprang 
to  his  lips. 

“  Heaven — can  it  be  an  ill  omen?”  he  muttered,  thought¬ 
fully.  “This  is  the  exact  spot  Loraine  saw  in  her  dream !” 

Wylmer  Lee  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

“  They  are  coming,  Ulvesford,”  he  said. 

Another  moment  Heath  Hampton,  De  Risnar,  and  a 
small,  wiry  individual,  enveloped  in  a  dark  cloak,  and 
carrying  a  black  leather  case,  appeared,  who  was  intro¬ 
duced  to  Ulmont  as  the  surgeon. 

Few  words  passed  between  them.  Proud,  cold,  defiant, 
and  bitter,  they  stepped  forth,  swords  in  hand,  out  into  the 
moonlight.  \ 

A  silence,  still  as  death,  lasted  for  a  second  only.  Then 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


50 

the  combatants  had  crossed  swords  and  the  terrible  work 
began ;  both  felt  the  strength  of  his  opponent’s  arm. 

Heath  Hampton  was  sure  this  would  be  a  victory  easily 
won.  Only  one  thought  rushed  madly  through  Ulmont 
Ulvesford’s  brain — his  wife,  his  beautiful  Loraine,  and  his 
mother. 

The  thought  gave  renewed  strength  to  his  arm;  one 
instant  only  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  feverish  brow; 
another  instant  and  a  terrible  imprecation  burst  from 
Heath  Hampton’s  lips,  as  his  arm  dropped  heavily  to  his 
side.  It  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  scene  by  those  who 
witnessed  it.  His  sword  fell  to  the  icy  ground  with  a  dull 
clang. 

“  You  have  won  the  game  this  time,  Ulvesford,”  he  cried, 
hoarsely,  bitterly,  and  still  defiantly ;  “  but  mark  me,  there 
is  still  a  future.  ” 

“  There  is  also  a  present,”  responded  Ulmont,  sternly. 

Seeing  further  satisfaction  was  at  an  end,  as  he  was  not 
one  of  those  who  would  pursue  a  worsted  foe,  nor  trample 
a  fallen  enemy,  Ulmont  turned  on  his  heel,  and  followed 
by  Wylmer  Lee,  left  the  spot,  leaving  the  surgeon  and 
the  count  with  Heath  Hampton  and  the  solemn  hush  of  the 
night. 

A  half  hour  later  Ulmont  entered  the  room  where  Loraine 
still  sat,  her  white  hands  clasping  the  book  which  lay  in 
her  lap. 

“  Truant,  how  late  you  are,”  she  said,  playfully;  “  where 
were  you?” 

“  I  was  unexpectedly  detained,”  he  replied. 

“Thank  you,  dear,  for  your  very  lucid  explanation;  I 
know  all  about  it  now,”  she  said,  sweetly,  with  a  pretty, 
arch  smile. 

“  I  have  certainly  explained  all  worth  knowing,”  he  said. 
Loraine  was  sure  she  detected  a  forced  calmness  in  his 
voice. 

She  turned  on  the  light  and  looked  at  her  husband. 
She  saw  his  face  was  colorless,  with  a  hard,  fixed  expres¬ 
sion  about  the  mouth. 

“What  is  the  matter,  Ulmont,  my  husband!”  she  cried, 
springing  to  his  side,  speechless  with  terror;  “has  any¬ 
thing  happened?  How  white  and  ill  you  look!” 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  drawing  her  toward  him,  with 
a  deep  sigh,  as  he  replied: 

“  Nothing  out  of  the  usual  order  of  events  has  happened, 
Loraine;  everything  is  as  it  should  be.” 

He  did  not  care  to  tell  her  the  truth — just  then;  not  until 
he  knew  more  of  Heath  Hampton’s  condition. 

They  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  silence;  then  Ulmont 
turned  and  looked  upon  bis  beautiful  young  wife  in  her 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


51 


artless,  peerless  beauty.  She  wore  a  soft,  shining,  violet 
silk,  ana  just  where  she  sat  the  lights  from  the  colored 
lamps  fell  full  upon  her;  one  great  dash  of  purple  lay  at 
her  feet,  a  bar  of  crimson  quivered  on  her  breast,  and  on 
the  beautiful  head  there  shone  a  glow  of  gold ;  her  lovely 
face  was  pale  with  wonder,  yet  it  seemed  like  a  fair,  tender 
flower  among  the  mystical  lights. 

“Loraine,”  said  Ulmont,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  ga,j 
raillery,  “if  anything  were  to  happen  to  me,  would  it 
change  your  love  for  me?” 

For  answer,  she  led  him  to  the  window. 

“Do  you  see  that  pale,  serene  moon,”  she  said,  “strug¬ 
gling  athwart  those  fleecy  clouds?  The  broad  glare  of  day 
may  hide  it  from  our  sight,  and  the  dark  clouds  of  night 
may  for  awhile  envelop  it,  yet  we  feel  sure  that  calm, 
patient  moon  will  struggle  silently  through  all,  and  resume 
her  constant  vigil  over  the  slumbering  earth.  My  love 
shall  be  just  as  constant,  Ulmont.  Nothing  could  change 
my  love  for  you;  I  have  often  thought  I  could  never  die 
and  leave  you,  husband  I” 

As  Ulmont  looked  down  upon  her,  he  noticed  all  the 
dainty  bloom  had  vanished  from  both  cheek  and  lip,  like  a 
delicate  blossom  in  a  sudden  frost. 

“  My  sweet  Loraine,”  he  whispered,  reverentially,  bend¬ 
ing  his  head  and  caressing  her  white  brow. 

As  his  hand  clasped  hers,  a  low,  startled  cry  fell  from 
her  lips. 

“  Look,  Ulmont  1”  she  cried,  in  an  awful  whisper,  holding 
his  hand  full  up  to  the  light;  “  oh,  Ulmont — my  husband 
—see  1  there  is  blood  upon  it !” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MARKS  OF  BLOOD. 

For  a  moment  the  husband  and  wife  stood  facing  each 
other  in  ominous  silence. 

“Will  you  tell  me  how  this  came  upon  your  hand,  Ul¬ 
mont?”  she  asked. 

For  one  brief  instant  the  impulse  seized  him  to  tell  her 
all.  He  could  not  endure  the  glance  of  horror  such  a 
recital  would  bring  to  those  blue  eyes;  Loraine,  so  pure 
and  artless;  what,  could*  he  tell  her  what  he  had  done  for 
her  sake? 

He  glanced  down  at  the  hand  which  the  two  dark  spots 
defaced,  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  account  for  them.  His 
quick,  keen  perception  soon  showed  him  a  loophole. 

“I  have  been  on  a  ramble  to  the  old  abbey  ruins,”  he 
replied,  carelessly;  “I  may  have  touched  one  of  the  jagged 
rocks  in  passing,  but  I  really  have  no  recollection  of  doing 


52 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


so ;  in  fact,  1  had  not  noticed  my  hand  until  you  called  my 
attention  to  it.  ” 

Loraine  took  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket — a  small, 
delicate,  flimsy  affair  of  lace  and  perfume. 

“  Let  me  bind  it  up  for  you,  dear,”  she  said,  earnestly. 

Ulmont  looked  at  the  tiny  bit  of  lace  with  an  amused 
irmile. 

‘  ‘  I  assure  you,  my  sweet  Loraine,  you  are  making  a 
mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill.” 

He  drew  the  white  arms  around  his  neck  and  the  golden 
head  drooped  on  his  breast. 

“You  know  you  are  my  world,  Ulmont,”  she  whispered. 
“Why  should  I  not  be  solicitous  about  you?  I  always 
imagine  that  those  who  love  deeply,  yet  do  not  show  their 
love,  resemble  the  sun  shining  behind  a  cloud.” 

“  That  is  certainly  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  Loraine,”  he 
replied,  “but  remember,  still  waters  run  deep.  There  are 
people  who  love  intensely,  yet  have  no  power  of  expressing 
their  affection.” 

Loraine  pondered  many  a  time  over  her  husband’s  re¬ 
mark,  and  wondered  more  than  once  what  he  had  meant 
by  it. 

Ulmont  was  more  tender  than  usual,  if  that  were  possible, 
but  beneath  it  all,  Loraine  read  a  strange  unrest. 

He  scarcely  smiled,  until  the  towering  icy  heights  and 
sunny  vales  of  Switzerland  had  faded  from  his  sight. 

******* 

Ulmont  and  Loraine  reached  Boston  late  in  the  fall. 

The  sky  was  blue,  but  the  air  was  keen  and  sharp,  and 
the  hoar-frost  lay  white  on  the  ground,  the  trees,  and  the 
housetops,  and  shone  like  diamonds  in  the  sunlight  on  the 
branching  evergreens. 

That  was  a  coining  home  long  to  be  remembered.  Every¬ 
one  spoke  of  the  glowing  beauty  of  the  happy  young 
wife,  and  of  the  lover-like  devotion  of  the  young  hus¬ 
band. 

The  two  mothers  watched  their  children  with  great  con¬ 
tentment.  Ulmont’s  mother  declared  it  was  quite  like 
living  her  own  youth  over  again  to  watch  the  pretty  love- 
dream  of  her  son  and  his  beautiful  bride.  Yet  there  was 
one  circumstance  which  puzzled  her — there  seemed  to  be 
some  secret  thought  preying  upon  his  mind. 

The  day  he  had  returned  home,  a  greeting  had  been 
given  him  which  would  have  pleased  a  lord;  yet,  after  it 
was  all  over  he  had  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  saying  he  “  was  tired  of  it  all 
—he  wanted  to  rest.”  An  hour  later,  upon  kneeling  beside 
liim,  his  mother  found  the  pillow,  upon  which  his  fair 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  5a 

r  x-  •„  ^  r 

head  lay,  wet  with  tears.  Did  this  look  like  happiness — 
yet,  why  should  he  not  be  so? 

There  was  another  matter  which  did  not  escape  the 
keen,  watchful  eyes  of  his  mother ;  she  noticed  how  eager¬ 
ly  Ulmont  watched  for  the  mails  which  brought  the  for¬ 
eign  papers;  she  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  look  of  relief 
that  crept  into  his  eyes  as  he  laid  them  down,  one  by  one, 
still  she  made  no  comment.  She  never  remembered  her 
son  to  have  taken  so  much  interest  in  foreign  affairs  be¬ 
fore;  she  was  exceedingly  puzzled. 

One  evening  Loraine  sat  at  the  piano,  her  white  fingers 
running  idly  over  the  ivory  keys.  Ulmont  sat  near  her, 
gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  gloomy  coals  in  the  grate, 
while  his  mother  sat  opposite  him,  deeply  interested  in  the 
columns  of  the  Boston  Herald. 

Suddenly  she  glanced  up. 

“  Loraine,  my  dear,”  she  said,  “  there  is  news  for  you.” 

“  Good  news,  I  hope,”  laughed  Loraine. 

“ Better  than  might  have  been  expected,”  replied  Mrs. 
Ulvesford,  as  she  continued;  “it  is  about  young  Heath 
Hampton.  Shall  I  read  it?” 

Loraine  turned,  with  a  look  of  wonder  on  her  face. 

“What  of  him?  Read  it,  by  all  means.  We  met  him 
abroad,  in  Switzerland.  Has  he  returned?” 

“No,  my  dear,  nor  is  he  likely  to  do  so  soon.” 

“Why?”  asked  Loraine ;  “has  some  Swiss  beauty  cap¬ 
tured  the  devoted  cavalier?” 

“No,”  replied  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  gravely;  “not  that.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  spread  out  the  paper  she  held ;  her  eyes 
voluntarily  falling  upon  the  face  or  her  son ;  in  that  one 
instant,  it  seemed  as  if  long  years  had  passed  over  his 
head ;  his  face  was  hard  and  drawn,  and  his  eyes  wore  a 
strange,  unnatural  brilliancy. 

“You  have  not  told  us  the  news  yet,”  persisted  Loraine. 

Ulmont’s  questioning  eyes  repeated  the  remark  more 
eloquently  than  words  could  have  done. 

“It  is  about  a  duel,”  continued  his  mother;  “a  duel 
wherein  a  young  and  beautiful  American  lady  was  con¬ 
cerned.” 

“Is — is  her  name  mentioned,  mother?” 

Both  ladies  looked  up  in  surprise ;  they  could  scarcely  be¬ 
lieve  the  hoarse,  unnatural  voice  they  had  heard  belonged 
to  Ulmont. 

“  No  name  is  given,”  replied  Mrs.  Ulvesford. 

Neither  his  young  wife  nor  his  mother  heard  the  fervent 
“thank  God”  he  breathed  from  his  heart,  although  no 
sound  issued  from  his  lips. 

“  I  always  imagined  him  an  impulsive  young  man,”  pur- 


64 


0 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 

sued  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  calmly;  “still  I  never  imagined  hia 
rashness  would  lead  him  to  such  an  end.” 

“  Surely  he  is  not  dead,”  gasped  Ulmont,  his  impatience 
and  intense  anxiety  almost  overpowering  him ;  in  another 
instant  he  was  kneeling  by  his  mother’s  side,  eagerly  scan¬ 
ning  the  paper  in  her  lap. 

No,  not  dead;  the  wound  on  the  hand  had  occasioned 
considerable  loss  of  blood,  ending  the  encounter,  but  was 
not  necessarily  considered  dangerous,  unless  inflammation 
set  in.  His  opponent  had  hurriedly  left  Savoy. 

The  details  concerning  the  affair  were  meagerly  given. 

“See,”  exclaimed  Loraine,  pointing  to  the  date,  “this 
must  have  happened  the  evening  before  we  left  Savoy.  I 
wondered  why  Heath  Hampton  failed  to  put  in  an  appear¬ 
ance  on  the  day  of  our  departure;  this  accounts  for  it.” 

The  news  of  the  duel,  which,  for  some  unaccountable 
reason,  failed  to  give  Ulmont’s  name,  proved  a  nine  days* 
wonder. 

Curiosity  was  rife  concerning  the  lady,  who  she  was,  and 
everything  concerning  the  scandal  being  the  general  topic 
of  the  day. 

Ulmont  heard  it  discussed  on  the  streets,  in  his  mother’s 
drawing-room,  even  his  young  wife  when  they  were  alone, 
seemed  eager  to  speak  of  the  one  absorbing  topic ;  wonder¬ 
ing  who  the  young  and  beautiful  lady  was,  and  if  she  had 
loved  Heath  Hampton.  * 

Ulmont  thought  he  would  certainly  go  mad.  How  little 
Loraine  imagined  she  had  been  the  cause  of  that  combat, 
against  which  Ulmont  had  pitted  his  very  life  to  protect 
her  honor ! 

Soon  after  this  an  event  happened  which  had  long  been 
expected.  Ulmont’s  mother,  who  had  never  been  strong, 
when  the  leaves  began  to  fall,  was  laid  at  rest  in  the  church¬ 
yard,  where  the  ladies  of  their  race  had  slumbered  for  long 
years.  Otherwise,  everything  moved  on  in  the  same  rou¬ 
tine  at  the  manor. 

One  December  morning  Mrs.  Lorrimer  had  driven  over 
from  Lorrimer  Place  to  see  her  daughter. 

A  deep  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  merry,  jingling 
sleigh-bells  rang  sharply  out  on  the  morning  air.  It  was 
just  such  a  morning  as  brings  a  flush  to  the  cheek,  bright¬ 
ness  to  the  eye,  and  a  warm  glow  to  the  heart. 

The  sunshine  gleamed  ruddily  through  the  leafless 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  deer  bent  their  heads  to 
drink,  breaking  through  the  thin  ice  that  had  formed  over 
the  clear,  glassy  pools. 

Never  did  Loraine  look  so  picturesquely  lovely  as  she 
Stood  at  the  window,  gazing  out  upon  the  winter  landscape, 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  5® 

her  crimson  robe  forming  a  glowing  background  to  her  fair 
beauty. 

She  was  so  gentle,  so  clinging,  just  such  a  woman  as  men 
reverence,  love,  and  protect.  Her  life  had  been  free  from 
care.  She  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  a  woman  to  be  slain  by- 
love — smitten  to  the  earth  idly  as  the  yellow  buttercup  that 
grows  in  the  fields. 

How  was  she  to  know,  on  this  beautiful  day,  that  the 
darkest  shadow  that  ever  fell  upon  a  pure,  young  life,  was 
to  cast  its  first  blight  upon  her ! 

All  the  joy  and  happiness  that  life  holds  had  been  hers. 
She  had  married  for  love,  and  her  handsome,  debonair 
young  husband’s  love  was  the  crown  of  her  earthly  ambi¬ 
tion,  the  star  of  her  existence.  She  had  been  a  loved  and 
petted  child,  and  was  a  loved  and  petted  wife. 

Loraine's  life  had  always  been  gay  and  brilliant;  the 
quiet  isolation  of  home  life  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  her. 

It  had  been  the  custom  for  generations  back  to  give  a 
grand  ball  at  Ulvesford  Mansion  every  Christmas  Eve. 

It  was  at  last  decided,  after  much  discussing,  that  the 
annual  ball  should  be  given.  It  was  to  be  a  grand  affair, 
everyone  agreed. 

Whatever  the  charming  young  mistress  of  Ulvesford 
Mansion  did,  would  be  done  brilliantly. 

“You  know,  dear,”  said  Loraine,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
husband’s  arm,  “  it  is  our  first  ball  at  home.  I  mean  to 
make  this  a  memorable  one.” 

“  As  if  anything  you  undertook  would  be  aught  else,”  he 
replied,  smilingly. 

A  memorable  one !  Heaven  pitv  her  I  That  one  night 
would  shut  out  from  her  young  life  all  the  brightness  of 
this  world. 

The  chiming  bells  which  would  usher  in  that  Christmas 
morning  could  have  whispered  a  strange,  startling  secret 
to  her. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  little  knew,  as  he  caressed  his  young 
wife’s  golden  hair,  that  the  event  which  would  happen  on 
that  Christmas  Eve  would  bring  him  the  keenest  sorrow 
mortal  man  ever  experienced. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IZETTA. 

Some  few  months  previous  to  the  events  narrated  in 
our  last  chapter,  the  golden  sun  was  just  setting  over  the 
quiet  little  village  of  Silvernook. 

Thesoft,  dreamy  silence  which  pervaded  this  quiet,  rural 
spot,  was  broken  only  by  the  chirping  of  birds  the  lowing 


56 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


of  the  distant  kine,  or  bit  of  song  from  some  blithe  young 
milkmaid’s  lips,  as  she  drove  home  the  cows. 

Along  the  flower-bordered  path  that  followed  the  wind¬ 
ings  of  a  deep,  silent,  rock-bedded  river,  walked  an  old 
man,  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane. 

As  he  turned  an  abrupt  angle  he  started  back  with  a  cry 
of  surprise;  before  him,  lying  face  downward  in  the  long, 
daisy-studded  grass,  lay  a  young  girl,  sobbing  bitterly. 

She  was  certainly  a  stranger  in  that  locality ;  Abel  never 
remembered  having  seen  her  before. 

“Child,”  said  the  old  flute-maker,  touching  her  gently 
on  the  shoulder,  “  why  do  you  weep?  Surely  youth  can¬ 
not  know  so  soon  the  bitter  dregs  life’s  cup  holds ;  why  do 
you  weep?” 

He  never  forgot  the  sad  expression  on  the  beautiful  face 
raised  to  his  in  the  gloaming ;  a  sweet,  foreign  face,  white 
with  anguish,  yet  perfect  as  a  marble  statue. 

Tear-drops  quivered  on  the  long,  dark  lashes  that  veiled 
the  beautiful,  scornful,  dark  eyes. 

For  a  moment  only  those  eyes  searched  wistfully  the 
rugged,  yet  honest  face  before  her. 

She  only  shook  her  head,  and  the  tears  flowed  afresh; 
then  a  sudden  thought  came  to  her. 

“  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me,  sir,  what  I  ought  to  do,”  she 
said,  with  a  low,  pitiful  sob.  “I  am  so  helpless  I  cannot 
even  think.” 

u  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  advise  you  if  you  will  tell  me 
your  trouble,  you  forget  that  I  do  not  know,”  replied  the 
flute-maker,  seating  himself  on  an  adjacent  rock.  “  Surely 
you  are  not  alone,  my  child?”  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

“Yes,  sir,  I  am  all  alone,”  she  replied.  “I  will  -tell  you 
how  it  came  about.  Then,  perhaps,  you  can  tell  me  what 
I  ought  to  do.  My  husband,  who  had  been  called  suddenly 
home,  gave  me  a  to  bring  to  his  old  nurse  in  Silver- 
nook,  with  whom  I  was  to  remain  a  few  days  until  he 
came  for  me.” 

Again  the  tears  started  to  the  lovely  eyes,  and  her  voice 
quivered  in  a  broken  sob. 

“I  have  lost  the  address  he  gave  me,  and — and  the 
money  my  husband  gave  me  I  must  have  left  in  the  train.” 

Abel  Moore  was  lost  in  bewilderment;  he  could  not  un¬ 
derstand  it. 

She  married !  This  young  creature  with  the  beautiful  for¬ 
eign  face,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  married !  He  could 
hardly  credit  what  he  heard. 

“  Have  you  no  recollection  of  the  name  of  the  person  you 
wish  to  find?”  he  asked. 

“None  whatever,  sir.” 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  57 

“Who  is  your  husband,  child,  what  is  his  name,  I 
mean?” 

“  Alderic  Ross,  sir,  and  I  am  his  wife  Izetta.” 

She  repeated  the  words  with  a  simple,  child-like  dignity, 
as  if  the  words  were  the  sweetest  music  to  her. 

“  Mr.  Ross,  of  where?” 

“That  I  do  not  know,  sir.” 

The  old  flute-maker  was  growing  each  moment  more 
mystified. 

“  Perhaps  your  own  people  could  advise  you  best,”  he 
said,  thoughtfully. 

He  never  forgot  how  the  beautiful  face  turned  away  from 
him  with  the  saddest  cry  he  had  ever  heard  from  human 
lips,  as  the  words  slowly  trembled  on  the  white  lips. 

“I  have  no  one,  sir;  no  one  in  all  the  wide  world  but 
Mr.  Ross.” 

Gradually  he  drew  from  her  her  story,  that  seemed  like 
a  page  of  a  sad  romance. 

“I  could  find  no  one  in  Silvernook  who  knew  my  hus¬ 
band,”  continued  Izetta,  “though  I  went  from  house  to 
house ;  then  I  tried  so  hard  to  think  what  I  should  do, 
sir,  until  Alderic  came  for  me,  without  home,  friends,  or 
money.” 

“  How  long  have  you  been  in  Silvernook?” 

“  Since  early  yesterday  morning.  I  could  not  find  my 
husband’s  old  nurse,  so  I  came  to  this  spot  to  think  what 
was  best  to  do.” 

‘  ‘  Have  you  been  out  in  the  cold  and  the  darkness  all 
night?”  he  asked. 

“  Yes,  sir;  but  I  did  not  feel  the  cold,  and  I  hid  my  face 
among  the  daisies  to  shut  out  the  darkness  until  morning 
came  again.” 

Abel  Moore  could  have  wept  for  her,  but  one  thought 
drifted  across  his  mind,  the  same  thought  that  had  .come 
to  all  who  had  heard  her  story. 

Poor  child!  Heaven  help  her;  she  is  cast  adrift  on  the 
world ;  whether  from  folly  or  inexperience,  they  could  not 
tell;  it  was  hard  to  judge  her. 

The  flute-maker  hid  his  face  in  his  hands ;  he  could  see 
she  loved  this  man  who  had  won  her  love  with  all  the 
depths  of  her  young,  trusting  heart. 

It  was  one  of  the  cruelest  of  tasks  to  undeceive  her ;  how 
could  he  tear  from  her  eyes  the  veil  of  innocence  and  trust, 
showing  her  the  cold,  mocking  world,  that  would  laugh  at 
the  woe  which  stretched  out  before  her? 

“  Some  villain  has  taken  this  means  of  ridding  himself  of 
this  beautiful  girl,”  he  thought.  “  Oh,  Lord!”  cried  Abel, 
holding  up  his  hands  to  Heaven,  “howcanst  Thou  have 
patience  with  men?” 


58 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


He  wondered  how  they  could  live  and  breathe  God’s  pure 
air,  while  such  a  sin  as  this  stained  their  souls. 

“You  must  bide  your  time  patiently  until  he  comes,  my 
poor  child.  Has  any  thought  occurred  to  you  as  to  where 
you  could  go  in  the  meantime?” 

“  No,  sir;  I  had  not  thought  much  of  that.  I  had  a  lit¬ 
tle  change  left,  quite  by  accident,  in  my  pocket,  with  which 
I  could  purchase  food  until  my  husband  comes  for  me.  I 
shall  go  to  the  depot  when  each  train  arrives,  that  I  may 
be  sure  he  will  not  miss  me.” 

“  God  help  her,”  mentally  ejaculated  the  old  flute-maker. 
“I  fear  those  raven  locks  will  whiten  beneath  the  snows  of 
many  a  year  before  the  return  of  him  for  whom  she  would 
watch  and  wait ! 

“  If  she  only  had  a  mother  to  advise  her,”  he  thought; 
“she  is  so  young,  beautiful,  artless,  and  so  helpless.  If 
she  had  sinned,  it  was  with  a  soul  so  pure  it  might  plead  to 
Heaven  for  pardon,  and  find  forgiveness  there.” 

The  flute-maker  scarcely  knew  which  way  to  point  out 
to  her. 

“  I  have  a  good  old  wife  at  home,  my  child;  come  to  her; 
surely  Marguirette  abcwr  all  others  will  know  what  is 
best  for  you.” 

His  face  was  so  kin"7  /,  his  voice  so  gentle,  Izetta  arose 
and  followed  him  at  once. 

“There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  you,”  said  the 
old  man,  stopping  short  in  the  path.  “  Mind,  I  do  not 
doubt  what  you  have  told  me.  but  before  I  take  you  home 
to  my  Marguirette,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  one  question.” 

Izetta  raised  her  eyes  earnestly  to  his  face. 

“You  have  told  me,  child,  your  mother  is  dead.” 

Izetta  looked  up  at  the  blue  arched  dome  above  her. 

“  If  death  were  to  claim  you,  would  you  have  the  hope 
of  meeting  your  sainted  mother,  spotless,  in  Heaven?”  he 
asked,  solemnly. 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  clasping  her  hands  reverential¬ 
ly,  and  turning  her  dark,  sorrowful  eyes  up  to  the  fleecy 
clouds  above  her. 

From  that  moment  the  flute-maker  would  have  staked 
his  life  upon  Izetta’s  truthfulness  and  purity.  Not  another 
word  was  spoken,  as  he  led  her  through  the  gloaming  to 
his  humble  home. 

How  little  she  knew,  as  she  walked  up  that  shell-border¬ 
ed  path  that,  far  away  in  his  stately  home,  at  that  moment 
the  good  old  doctor  was  bending  over  her  husband’s  pros¬ 
trate  form,  saying: 

“His  life  hangs  by  a  single  thread;  if  he  lives,  his  rea¬ 
son  may  be  partially  restored ;  never  wholly,  unless  by  a 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


59 


violent  shock,  which  would  probably  cost  him  his  life.  If 
he  lives  at  all,  you  must  be  content.” 

In  the  midst  of  a  bower  of  honey-suckles,  purple  lilacs 
and  nodding  sun-flowers,  quite  hidden  from  view  like  a 
bird’s  nest,  was  the  flute-maker’s  cottage. 

From  the  open  doorway  the  soft  whirring  of  a  spinning- 
wheel  fell  upon  their  ear,  and  the  low  notes  of  a  woman’s 
voice  singing  the  sweetest,  most  plaintive  melody  Izetta 
had  ever  heard. 

The  room  was  frrnished  plainly  and  neatly.  A  shaded 
lamp  burned  upon  the  mantel,  from  which  the  single  occu¬ 
pant  of  the  room  was  partially  turned  as  if  in  expectancy. 

“Is  that  you,  Abel?”  she  called,  as  he  paused  on  the 
threshold. 

“Yes,  Marguirette,  wife,  it  is  I.” 

“Ah!”  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  softly.  “I  thought  I 
heard  a  stranger’s  footsteps.” 

The  venerable  face,  framed  in  its  snowy  hair,  was  bent 
slightly  forward,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  turned  inquiring¬ 
ly  toward  the  door;  yet  in  them  was  no  sight.  Poor  lady ! 
she  was  blind. 

“  You  are  right,  Marguirette, ” answered  the  flute-maker; 
“  I  have  brought  a  stranger  with  me — -a  young  girl.” 

Izetta  noticed  how  soft  and  low  his  voice  grew  as  he 
spoke  to  her. 

“  A  young  girl,  did  you  say,  Abel?” 

“Yes,  one  just  about  the  age  of  our  Amy,  when — 
when — — ” 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  and  Izetta  saw  him  turn 
aside,  a  tear  rolling  down  his  furrowed  cheek. 

Izetta  wondered  why  the  poor  lady  clasped  her  in  her 
arms  so  firmly  to  her  beating  heart,  while  her  hands  wan¬ 
dered  tremblingly  over  her  long,  dark  curls,  as  she  mur¬ 
mured,  quite  under  her  breath : 

“ So  like — ah,  Abel,  so  like!” 

]  Again  Izetta,  in  her  artless  way,  told  Marguirette  her 
pitiful  story ;  there  were  tears  in  the  sightless  eyes  when 
she  ceased  speaking. 

The  young  girl  spoke  in  such  hopeful  eagerness  of  the 
few  days  which  must  soon  pass  before  her  husband  came 
for  lier. 

Abel  Moore  looked  at  her,  pondering  what  was  best  to 
be  done.  The  sun  had  set,  the  birds  were  folding  their 
wings,  and  the  flowers  long  since  had  closed  their  eyes, 
while  the  bright  stars  were  slowly  fixing  themselves  in  the 
sky  above. 

“  Marguirette,”  he  said,  gently,  “what  shall  we  do  toX 
this  child?” 

Marguirette  led  him  quietly  to  the  window, 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


flO 


“Look,”  she  said;  “I  cannot  see  that  white  cross  upon 
which  the  stars  are  shining  through  the  trees :  but  you  can 
see  it,  Abel.  ” 

“  I  can  see  it,”  he  replied,  with  a  husky  voice. 

“For  the  sake  of  her  who  sleeps  there,  Abel — our  all, 
who  was  so  like  this  one — let  us  Keep  her  here  until  the 
first  great  sting  of  her  grief  is  over.  I  can  better  judge 
then,  what  is  best  for  her  future.” 

“  Child,  would  you  like  to  remain  here  for  a  few  days?” 
he  asked,  turning  to  Izetta. 

She  crossed  quickly  over  to  where  the  old  flute-maker 
and  his  wife  stood  by  the  window. 

“I  am  very  grateful  to  you,”  she  said;  “  my  husband 
will  be  very  pleased  that  I  have  found  so  good  a  shelter.” 

“You  love  your — your  husband  very  much?”  said  Mar- 
guirette,  sadly. 

“  More  than  I  can  tell  you,”  answered  Izetta. 

She  wondered  why  the  good  woman  said  “poor  child!” 
while  she  was  so  rich  in  her  husband’s  love. 

For  many  days  that  followed,  the  passengers  on  the  in¬ 
coming  trains  saw,  eagerly  watching  from  amid  the  green 
trees,  a  beautiful,  expectant,  joyful  face,  the  most  glori¬ 
ously  beautiful,  foreign  face  they  had  ever  seen,  and  they 
never  forgot  the  white,  despairing  woe  that  settled  over  it, 
from  which  all  joy,  all  light  and  happiness  died  out  as  the  - 
train  slowly  moved  onward,  leaving  her  there  alone  in  her 
pitiful  sorrow. 

Thus  the  days  slowly  dragged  along,  lengthening  into  a 
week  and  the  week  to  a  fortnight ;  and  yet  he  came  not, 
and  dark  thoughts  were  creeping  into  the  sad  girl-wife’s 
heart  as  she  crept  slowly  home  by  the  path  on  the  brink 
of  the  dark  river. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HE  COMETH  UOT. 

Who  could  attempt  to  describe  the  next  few  days  that 
followed;  the  rosy  dawns  watched  for  with  such  a"pitiful, 
pleading  face,  and  the  tears  which  ushered  in  each  gloam¬ 
ing? 

After  each  train  had  departed  and  Izetta  came  not,  Abel 
always  knew  where  to  look  for  her — down  by  the  dark, 
silent  water  where  he  had  first  met  her,  with  her  face 
buried  in  the  long,  cool  grass, 

There  were  no  tears  now ;  it  might  have  been  better  had 
there  been. 

Abel  and  his  wife  were  sorely  troubled  about  her. 

,  4‘  Love  often  makes  a  woman  desperate,”  she  thought, 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


as  she  listened  to  the  girl’s  low,  quivering  sighs.  “  There 
is  no  telling  what  she  might  do  if  left  to  herself.” 

Abel  had  thought  her  scarcely  more  than  a  child:  he  was 
amazed  at  the  tragic  sorrow  that  swayed  her  soul;  the 
haunting  look  in  the  dark  eyes  was  terrible  to  see. 

Slowly  the  thought  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  Izetta 
— what  if  he  never  came?  Ah,  God!  how  was  she  to  live 
through  the  suspense? 

The  week  and  two  succeeding  days  had  slowly  dragged 
away,  bringing  Izetta  no  tidings. 

She  crept  slowly  back  to  the  flute-maker’s  home,  where 
Marguirette  sat  knitting  in  the  twilight,  sinking  down  on 
a  low  footstool  by  her  side. 

Marguirette  knew  full  well  the  terrible,  heart-rending 
lesson  of  disappointment  that  young  heart  was  learning. 

She  knew  there  are  times  in  life  when  silence  is  a  blessing 
— this  was  one  of  them.  At  last  Izetta  broke  the  silence. 

“  Mrs.  Moore,”  she  said,  “  why  do  you  think  my  husband 
does  not  come  to  me?” 

There  seemed  to  be  years  added  to  that  young  voice ;  all 
the  sweetness  was  gone  from  it. 

“My  child,”  replied  Marguirette,  “God  forbid  my  lips 
should  be  the  ones  to  speak  that  which  must  give  you  pain, 
but  it  is  my  duty.  You  will  look  back  to  this  moment  all 
the  years  of  your  after  life,  and  remember  it  was  my  duty 
to  speak.” 

She  could  not  see  how  marble- white  the  beautiful  face 
had  grown. 

“Izetta,”  she  continued  softly,  “the  world  is  wicked; 
there  are  men  who  have  helped  to  make  it  so;  there  are 
crimes  too  dark  for  young  minds  to  fully  comprehend ; 
but  the  cruelest  of  all  crimes  is  the  blighting  of  innocent 
girlhood.” 

Izetta’s  lips  parted,  but  no  sound  issued  from  them. 

“There  are  men,”  continued  blind  Marguirette,  sadly, 
“  who  are  attracted  to  a  pretty  face ;  beauty  is  often  a  fatal 
gift,  child,  the  voice  is  tender,  the  smile  swTeet.  I  have  not 
wondered  they  win  the  love  of  young  girls,  but  the  folly 
does  not  rest  there,  Izetta ;  they  soon  tire  of  them ;  can 
you  think  what  would  happen  then,  child?” 

“No,”  came  the  girl’s  answer,  in  a  low  voice,  something 
like  the  truth  of  Marguirette’s  meaning  flashing  across  her 
brain. 

“  They  too  often  tire  of  a  light,  romantic  love,  and  with 
a  smile  on  their  lips,  or  a  kiss  on  their  cheeks,  they  leave 
them.  Heaven  pity  the  poor,  unprotected  innocents !  They 
never  return,  Izetta,  never.  May  Heaven  pity  the  heart  of 
her  who  waits;  they  never  come,  child.” 

“  It  cannot  be  so  with  Alderic,”  sobbed  the  girl;  “  I  am 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


6 1 

his  wife,  Mrs.  Moore,  surely  that  makes  a  difference.  Why 
did.  he  marry  me  if  he  meant  to  desert  me?” 

“Abel  tells  me  you  are  fair  to  look  upon.  He  was  young 
and  reckless ;  your  beauty  was  the  fatal  rock ;  it  was  ad¬ 
miration,  not  iove.” 

Izetta  recalled  her  husband’s  every  word  and  look.  She 
did  not  remember  the  words,  “  I  love  you ,”  ever  to  have 
crossed  his  lips. 

“  Surely  God  would  never  be  so  cruel  to  me,”  moaned 
the  girl  passionately,  ‘ 4  when  I  love  him  so.  Ah !  Mrs. 
Moore,  I  did  not  know  then  my  life  was  so  bound  up  in 
his.  Alderie  is  the  other  half  of  my  soul.  I  could  not  live 
my  life  out  and  know  I  should  never  look  upon  his  face 
again,”  she  cried,  vehemently. 

“  Others  have  lived  through  sorrows  just  as  deep  and 
dark,  my  child.” 

“There  never  could  have  been  a  life  so  dark  and  desolate 
as  mine,”  wailed  Izetta;  “  first  my  beautiful  young  mother 
was  taken  from  me,  then  my  father,  and  next  my  patient 
old  grandfather.  I  had  always  been  so  good,  so  dutiful, 
why  was  1  left  all  alone  to  suffer  so?  My  husband’s  love 
was  all  I  had  to  comfort  me.  Can  you  tell  me  why  that 
was  denied  me  too?” 

“  God  knows  best,  child.” 

“  I  cannot  believe  he  could  be  guilty  of  such  a  wrong, 
Mrs.  Moore !  if  you  had  only  known  Alderie,  you  would 
have  felt  how  impossible  it  would  have  been  for  him  to  de¬ 
ceive  anyone.  I  have  heard  him  say  again  and  again:  ‘his 
honor  was  his  shield.’  ” 

“Alas!  alas!  poor  child,  how  little  he  cared  for  your 
honor,”  sighed  the  flute-maker’s  wife,  sorrowfully.  “  You 
will  wonder,  child,  why  I  have  so  little  faith  in  the  prom¬ 
ises  of  men.  Do  you  see  a  motto  with  the  simple  word 
‘  mother  ’  worked  in  worsted  flowers,  that  hangs  on  yon¬ 
der  wall?” 

“  Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  pressing  the  worn  hand  she 
held. 

“That  was  my  Amy’s  handiwork:  she  was  my  only 
child.  You  cannot  know  the  depths  of  mother-love,  Izetta, : 
you  cannot  realize  how  I  loved  my  only  child — I  worshiped 
her,  I  often  think  that  is  why  Goa  took  her  from  me.  Amy 
was  fair  and  good — she  was  just  about  your  age  when  the 
dark  cloud  of  her  life  settled  over  her.  Love  caused  it  all, 
Izetta — love  caused  it  all. 

‘ 4  This  was  the  way  it  came  about.  A  stranger  was  rid¬ 
ing  through  Silvernook  when,  opposite  this  gate,  his  horse 
slipped  and  the  rider  fell.  We  took  the  stranger  in  and 
cared  for  him.  They  told  me  he  was  young  and  handsome ; 
but  I  took  no  heed ;  it  did  not  strike  me  then  as  strange* 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


68 


“He  lingered,  after  he  recovered,  many  a  day — I  shall 
never  forget  the  day  he  left.  As  the  night  came  on,  I  missed 
my  Amy  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  agony  of  that  day. 
Abel  found  a  note  in  Amy’s  room  saying  she  had  gone  with 
the  handsome  stranger.  ‘  We  are  to  be  married  this  very 
day,  mother  dear,  and  in  a  few  short  weeks  we  will  return 
to  you.’ 

“  All  the  long  days  that  followed,  I  sat  with  my  face  to 
the  wall;  darkness  shrouded  my  eyes,  but  a  darkness  more 
bitter  than  death  shrouded  my  soul.  In  all  the  long  months 
that  followed,  no  word  came  from  my  child.  Heaven  alone 
knew  what  sorrows  surrounded  Amy ;  still  I  held  my  faith 
with  God.  When  Amy’s  sorrows  are  greater  than  she  can 
bear,  she  will  come  back  to  her  poor  old  mother’s  arms,  I 
said. 

“When  she  was  a  little  child,  she  found  shelter  on  this 
breast;  she  knows  her  mother’s  love  will  prove  faithful  to 
the  last,  though  all  else  fail  her;  if  harm  befalls  my  child, 
she  will  come  to  me. 

“I  was  right,”  continued  the  poor  old  blind  woman, 
softly ;  “  one  night  as  I  sat  in  this  same  chair,  I  heard  soft 
footsteps  creep  close  up  beside  me,  and  a  stifled  sob.  Two 
soft  arms  stole  round  my  neck,  a  tired  head  fell  on  my 
breast,  and  a  voice,  I  scarcely  knew  was  Amy’s,  sobbed : 

“‘Do  not  censure  me,  mother,  I  have  come  home  to  die.’ 

“  ‘  What  of  your  husband,  Amy?’  I  cried. 

“  ‘Do  not  speak  of  him,  mother.’ 

“  Little  by  little  she  told  me  all ;  of  the  morning  they  had 
left,  and  of  the  little,  dwarfed  minister  who  had  married 
them  in  the  morning  light — of  the  few  short  weeks  that 
had  been  like  a  dream  of  Heaven  to  her.  Then  came  the 
horrible  awakening.  Saying  ‘  he  would  soon  return,’  he 
left  her.  He  never  returned ;  instead,  he  wrote  her  a  let¬ 
ter  which  broke  her  trusting  heart,  confessing  that  the 
marriage  she  so  fully  believed  and  trusted  in  was  no  mar¬ 
riage,  that  the  dwarf  who  married  them  was  no  minister. 
A  bank-note  was  inclosed  in  the  letter,  which  read : 

“  ‘  I  would  indeed  undo  the  past  if  it  was  in  my  power, 
Amy,  but  it  is  too  late.  I  cannot.  Go  back  to  Silvernook, 
Amy,  and  forget  me.’ 

“  Poor  child,  she  came  back  to  her  mother’s  love,  but  she 
never  forgot  him — she  died  with  his  name  on  her  lips. 
You  can  see  a  grave,  a  little  white  cross  beneath  the  trees. 
That  is  Amy’s  grave.  Her  poor  old  father  never  was  the 
same.  His  heart  is  buried  in  Amy’s  grave. 

“The  name  of  our  child  has  seldom  been  spoken  since  be¬ 
tween  us;  our  sorrow  is  too  deep  for  words.  Now  you  will 


64 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


understand,  Izetta,  how  my  heart  yearns  toward  you — how 
I  would  shield  your  trusting  heart  from  every  cruel  stab.” 

Izetta  laid  her  head  on  Marguirette’s  shoulder. 

“  She  was  young,  as  I  am,”  she  said.  “  She  could  not 
live  without  her  love,  I  cannot  live  without  mine.” 

“She  might  have  lived,”  answered  Marguirette,  “had 
she  come  to  me  for  comfort  when  the  first  stab  of  grief  fell 
upon  her.  She  pined  away  for  want  of  a  loving  word  of 
courage  and  strength.  You  must  look  to  God  to  be  righted, 
if  you  have  been  wronged,  my  child.  Promise  me  you 
will  look  for  guidance  up  there.” 

“ I  cannot  believe  I  have  been  so  wronged,  Mrs.  Moore. 
I  solemnly  believe  it  was  a  minister  of  God  who  married 
Alderic  and  me.” 

“  There  are  others,  child,  who  have  been  just  so  trust¬ 
ful.” 

“  Mrs.  Moore,”  said  Izetta,  solemnly,  “  in  Heaven  I  have 
an  angel  mother.  She  could  not  have  allowed  a  crime  so 
dark  to  fall  on  her  helpless  child.  I  have  never  done  a 
single  wrong  for  which  I  should  atone.” 

“  Alas !  it  is  the  good  who  seem  to  be  called  upon  to  suf¬ 
fer  most,”  said  Marguirette,  sadly. 

“I  shall  always  believe  I  am  his  wife  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven  and  in  the  sight  of  man,”  said  Izetta,  firmly. 
“  That  is  the  one  great  thought  that  will  help  me  to  bear 
my  life  bravely.  It  may  be  with  me  -  as  it  was  with  your 
poor  Amy.  He  may  have  ceased  to  love  me,  hut  for  all 
that  I  believe  I  am  his  lawful  wife.  The  world  shall  pro¬ 
claim  it.  I  never  could  die  with  the  least  stain  clouding  the 
name  my  mother  gave  me  in  all  its  purity.  I  shall  know 
no  rest  until  I  have  sought  my  husband  out,  and  he  has 
said,  that  all  the  wide,  wide  world  may  know  it, 

“  ‘  This  is  Izetta,  my  wife.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

A  HEART  PANG. 

Soon  another  fact  became  apparent  to  Izetta ;  she  must 
not  remain  longer  under  the  flute-maker’s  roof. 

Abel’s  scanty  earnings  scarcely  provided  the  necessaries 
of  life  for  himself  and  wife;  she  must  not  add  to  their 
burden. 

She  made  one  more  effort,  with  Abel’s  help,  to  find  the 
former  old  nurse  of  her  husband;  the  endeavor  proved 
useless. 

“  I  have  known  everyone  in  Silvernook  this  many  a  year. 
I  never  knew  but  two  who  were  nurses;  one  was  good  old 
Auntie  Becket,  as  we  used  to  call  her ;  she  died  full  forty 
years  ago,  %en  there  is  Mrs.  Ryegate,  who,  in  her  early 


{. 


65 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 

clays  lived  up  at  Ulvesford  Mansion,  but  never  anywhere 
else,  so  ’twas  not  she.  No  one  hereabouts  ever  heard  of  a 
Mr.  Ross !  Ah !  child,  there  is  too  deep  a  mystery  here  for* 
honest  country  folk  like  us  to  probe.” 

“Shall  I  have  to  give  up  the  search?”  asked  Izetta,  piti¬ 
fully,  sick  and  weary  at  heart. 

“I  don’t  see  what  else  you  can  do,”  replied  Abel. 
“  Could  you  pick  up  a  grain  of  sand  and  fling  it  into  that 
rushing  river,  with  the  hope  of  finding  it  again?  He  has 
gone  out  of  your  life,  child.  There  is  nothing  left  you  but 
to  forget.” 

“  If  I  only  could  forget !”  she  sobbed,  passionately.  ‘  ‘  Why, 
the  soft  wooing  of  the  breeze  against  my  cheek  reminds 
me  of  his  voice  ;  the  very  trees,  the  flowers,  and  birds, 
whisper  of  nothing  but  him.  I  might  not  know  the  dif¬ 
ference  between  one  grain  of  sand  and  its  mates,  but,  oh ! 
Mr.  Moore,  my  love  would  teach  me  by  its  sweet  thrillings, 
when  Alderic  is  near  me;  he  is  like  none  other.” 

“Was  there  ever  a  love  so  grand,  so  passionate,  so  sub¬ 
lime  as  this  w7as?”  thought  Abel,  in  simple  wonder;  he 
could  not  comprehend  its  great  depths. 

One  great  prayer  rose  up  from  Abel’s  heart  that  these 
two  should  never  meet,  if,  perchance,  fate  e’er  willed  it 
otherwise.  He  trembled  . for  the  young  girl  standing  there, 
so  beautiful,  so  passionate,  so  loving;  he  little  knew  what 
lay  in  store  for  her. 

Izetta  began  to  look  around  her,  wondering  what  she 
should  do. 

Those  little  white  hands  were  unused  to  toil,  other  than 
the  pleasant  task  of  drawing  the  sweetest  melody  from 
piano,  harp,  or  guitar. 

Her  grandfather  had  been  wont  to  say  that  her  voice 
alone  was  a  fortune  to  her. 

Alas !  alas !  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  her  in  time  of 
need. 

“  What  use  have  we  for  teachers  of  music?”  the  simple 
folk  of  Silvernook  had  said  to  her,  “with  such  great  mas¬ 
ters  as  the  birds,  the  brook,  and  the  great  sighing  trees? 
Your  voice  is  sweet,  like  the  music  of  silvery,  chiming  bells, 
but  we  are  content  with  our  own.” 

“Is  there  nothing  I  can  do?”  cried  Izetta,  turning  her 
white  face  to  the  fleecy  clouds.  “  Father  in  Heaven !  which 
way  shall  I  turn?  Without  home  or  friends,  where  shall  I 
go?  what  shall  I  do?”  Many  a  time  had  the  good  old  par¬ 
son  of  Silvernook  watched  that  beautiful,  wistful  face  as 
she  hurriedly  passed  his  cottage  to  greet  the  approaching 
train,  noting  the  woful  tears  and  the  agony  in  the  dark 
eyes,  as  she  slowly  and  sadly  retraced  her  steps. 

He  had  deeply  pitied  her,  wishing  he  knew  her  history. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


m 

He  was  sure  some  great  sorrow  had  crept  into  her  life,  and 
he  longed  to  comfort  her. 

Izetta  shrank  from  repeating  to  him  the  sad  tale,  which 
caused  everyone  who  had  heard  it  to  gaze  at  her  in  such 
sorrowful  pity,  with  the  words,  “  poor  child !’  upon  their 
lips. 

“  I  must  find  something  to  do,”  she  told  the  parson.  “  I 
am  all  alone  in  the  world ;  home,  friends,  or  money,  I  have 
none.  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  what  I  can  do?” 

“You  are  very  young,  my  child,”  replied  the  pastor, 
slowly;  “  the  world  calls  for  experience,  and  experience 
goes  with  age.  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for  you ;  still,  I  can 
give  you  no  hope  as  to  the  results.” 

‘  ‘  Perhaps  I  might  teach  the  village  school,  or  something 
of  that  kind,”  suggested  Izetta. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Morleigh  shook  his  head. 

“Miss  True  is  twice  your  age,”  he  said,  “and  she  finds 
her  task  no  light  one.” 

“  Perhaps  I  could  find  some  one  who  would  engage  me 
for  lace-work .  ” 

He  shook  his  head;  there  was  no  one  in  Silvernook  who 
required  such  services. 

She  could  not  spin,  neither  could  she  knit;  these  were  the 
principal  industries  of  the  village. 

She  had  invested  her  little  store  in  an  advertisement  as 
governess,  in  an  adjacent  city  paper,  but  nothing  had  come 
of  it.  She  had  dispensed  with  all  the  pretty  ornaments  her 
husband  had  given  her,  waiting  patiently  in  the  hope  that 
some  one  would  want  her  who  read  that  advertisement, 
but  all  in  vain ;  only  the  plain  gold  band  Alderic  had  placed 
upon  her  finger,  remained. 

“I  would  not  part  with  that,”  she  told  herself,  “  if  I  were 
to  die  of  hunger;  when  I  gaze  upon  it,  this  little  band  re¬ 
minds  me,  even  though  deserted,  that  I  am  an  honorable 
wife.  I  have  done  no  wrong;  this  must  be  my  passport  to 
Heaven.” 

One  day  the  pastor  sent  for  Izetta;  he  had  said  she  must 
not  hope;  yet  why  had  he  sent  for  her  so  suddenly? 

She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  cottage  gate  and  entered. 

Dr.  Morleigh  was  among  his  flowers,  carefully  pruning 
the  dead  leaves  and  withered  tendrils. 

“  Would  there  were  gentle  hands  to  prune  away  all  that 
is  harmful  from  the  buds  of  life’s  garden,”  he  thought,  as 
he  looked  up  benignly  upon  seeing  who  his  visitor  was.  He 
never  forgot  the  mournful  expression  of  the  beautiful  eyes 
that  searched  his  face  so  eagerly  for  one  ray  of  hope. 

“Sit  down,  my  dear,”  said  Doctor  Morleigh,  motioning 
to  a  rustic  garden  seat  beneath  a  spreading  cedar;  “  I  have 
news  for  you,  ” 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


67 


For  one  brief  instant  the  hope  that  it  might  be  from  Al- 
deric,  her  husband,  rose  in  her  heart. 

A  tide  of  color  rushed  across  the  white  face,  her  breast 
heaved,  and  her  little  white  hands  were  clasped  convul¬ 
sively  together. 

“It  is  about  a  situation,”  continued  Doctor  Morleigh, 
cheerily. 

He  wondered  why  the  young  girl  leaned  so  wearily  back 
against  the  cedar  tree. 

The  white  lids  closed  over  the  dark  eyes,  and  all  the 
bright  color  left  the  delicate  face;  he  thought,  in  his  hon¬ 
est  heart,  the  good  news  had  been  quite  too  much  for  her. 

“  I  have  grave  doubts,  however,  as  to  whether  you  will 
be  able  to  fill  the  position,  my  dear.  I  do  not  refer  to  your 
capability,  but  your  age,  child,  will  be  a  serious  draw¬ 
back.” 


“If  I  were  only  older  how  much  better  it  would  be  for 
me,”  sighed  Izetta. 

“Ah,”  replied  the  minister,  softly,  “those  who  have  the 
weight  of  years  upon  their  brow  cry  out  in  the  bitterness 
of  their  soul,  *  If  I  had  but  youth  again  what  would  I  not 
do?’” 


He  looked  at  the  fair  face,  more  gloriously  beautiful  than 
an  artist’s  dream,  and  thought  how  many  of  the  grand 
ladies  he  had  known  would  give  princely  fortunes  for  a 
face  like  that. 

“  You  are  not  much  more  than  sixteen,  are  you,  child?” 
he  ask<  d. 


“Not  much  more,  sir;  sixteen  and  a  few  months.” 

“  There  are  not  many  of  Madame  Root’s  pupils  below  that 
age,”  he  reflected:  “a  serious  drawback,  indeed.  You 
speak  your  native  tongue,  I  presume?” 

“  Oh,  yes,  sir;  my  grandfather  took  the  greatest  of  pains 
with  my  French  and  music.” 

“  Could  you  give  a  recommendation  from  the  school  you 
last  attended,  as  to  qualifications?’5 

“  I  never  attended  a  school,  sir.  My  grandfather  was  my 
only  teacher;  it  was  the  one  bright  dream  of  his  life  that  I 
should  master  the  languages  and  music  perfectly.” 

“  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  Madame  Root ;  you  can  do  no 
more  than  apply.  Hush,”  said  he  gently,  as  Izetta  was 
about  to  speak,  “you  must  not  talk  of  failure;  if  that  is 
what  you  were  about  to  say,  until  after  you  have  first 
tried.  It  is  a  sad  thing  in  life  when  light-hearted  youth 
first  finds  out  the  terrible  reality  of  the  words:  ‘I  have 
striven  hard,  but  alas,  I  have  failed.’  Madame  Root  is  a 
wDe  woman  and  will  judge  wisely  at  all  events,  I  am  sure. 
I  have  known  the  lady  well  for  many  a  year,  and  I  have 


68 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


$ 

asked,  as  a  special  favor  to  myself,  that  she  will  give  you 
full  opportunity  of  testing  your  abilities.  ” 

uOh,  sir,  you  are  more  than  kind,”  sobbed  Izetta;  “how 
can  I  ever  sufficiently  thank  you?” 

‘ 4  By  not  attempting  it.  I  am  but  a  humble  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  God.  Thank  Him  for  all  things.” 

He  placed  a  sealed  envelope  in  her  hands,  advising  her  to 
peruse  it  before  she  started,  that  she  might  be  familiar  with 
the  duties  which  might  be  assigned  her. 

‘  ‘  Should  I  prove  satisfactory  to  madam,  there  is  one  re¬ 
quest  I  would  like  to  ask  of  you,”  said  Izetta,  still  linger¬ 
ing  in  the  path. 

“Speak  out,  my  child;  never  hesitate  in  good  thoughts.” 

Izetta  drew  nearer  to  where  he  stood;  the  little,  soft, 
white  hand  she  laid  upon  his  arm  trembled  as  the  sweet 
voice  whispered,  hesitatingly ; 

‘ 4  If  any  one — a  stranger,  I  mean — a  gentleman — should 
come  to  Silvernook  and  inquire  for  me,  will  you  please  tell 
him  where  I  have  gone,  sir?” 

The  hand  which  held  the  pruning  knife  fell  to  his  side, 
and  the  keen  blade  severed  a  white  blossom  from  the  bush 
in  its  descent,  falling  in  the  dust  at  his  feet. 

The  old  man  looked  Izetta  full  in  the  face. 

“I  will  not  question  you,”  he  said;  “but  if  I  were  to 
promise  you  this,  can  you  answer  me  truthfully — would  it 
be  a  just  action?  Your  motive  is  strictly  a  true  one?” 

“You  need  have  no  fear,  sir,”  Izetta  answered ;  “  Heaven 
would  bless  you  for  such  a  kind  action  to  me.” 

Still  the  thought  troubled  the  old  minister ;  he  pondered 
over  these  words  long  and  earnestly  after  Izetta  had  gone. 

Was  this  the  key  that  solved  the  hidden  sorrow  of  this 
beautiful  young  girl’s  past? 

The  question  greatly  troubled  him ;  he  could  not  tell  why. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  COLLEGE  OF  MUSIC. 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  old  flute  maker 
and  his  wife,  when  Izetta  told  them  of  the  situation  the 
minister  hoped  to  procure  for  her  at  Madame  Root’s,  in  a 
neighboring  city. 

“  God  bless  you,  my  child,”  whispered  Marguirette,  as  she 
folded  the  young  girl  to  her  heart.  ‘  ‘  Always  remember,  if 
you  find  the  world  too  cold  and  stormy,  you  shall  have  a 
place  by  our  hearthstone,  humble  though  it  be.  You  have 
been  with  us  scarcely  a  fortnight,  yet  we  love  you  very 
dearly;  you  will  not  forget  us,  Izetta?” 

Izetta  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Forget  those 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  69 

two  kind  souls  who  had  cheered  her  so  patiently  through 
her  dark  sorrow?  Never!  never  while  life  lasted. 

She  looked  around  upon  the  quiet  hills  and  vales  that  had 
silently  witnessed  the  great  tragedy  of  her  life.  She  laid 
her  hand  tenderly  on  the  mossy  stone,  beside  which  Abel 
had  first  found  her,  murmuring  softly ; 

“  I  shall  never  forget  how  this  spot  looks;  ’twas  here  my 
heart  broke.” 

The  tender  violets  swayed  by  the  evening  breeze,  lowly 
bent  their  purple  heads  earthward  as  if  in  sorrow  because 
she  had  said  farewell  to  them. 

As  Izetta  sat  in  the  doorway  of  the  little  cottage,  which 
on  the  morrow  she  should  leave  perhaps  forever,  she  thought 
of  the  letter  the  minister  had  given  her,  with  the  request 
that  she  should  make  herself  aware  of  its  contents  at  her 
leisure. 

As  she  opened  the  envelope  something  fluttered  to  her 
feet. 

Heaven  bless  the  kind  old  parson;  it  was  a  bank-note  for 
a  smell  amount,  which  would  enable  her  to  defray  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  her  journey. 

“  If  you  never  repay  me  perhaps  I  may  find  the  mterest 
which  collects  from  a  worthy  deed  up  there.'1'1 

The  letter  to  Madame  Boot  spoke  of  her  as  ‘  ‘  Miss  Bienzi.  ” 
Then  it  occurred  to  her  she  had  not  told  her  kind  bene¬ 
factor  she  was  married. 

She  thought  she  had  explained  to  him  that  Bienzi  was 
her  grandfather’s  name,  not  her  own. 

She  fully  meant  to  make  these  facts  known  to  Madame 
Boot,  however. 

u  Wil!  you  promise  me,”  asked  Marguirette,  holding  the 
little  white  hands  in  her  own  for  the  last  time,  “  no  matter 
what  you  are  called  upon  to  suffer  in  life,  should  you  in 
the  years  to  come  ever  meet  him ,  promise  me  that  you  will 
do  nothing  rash?” 

For  a  moment  only  Izetta  hesitated. 

“I  give  you  my  promise,  Mrs.  Moore,”  she  said. 

She  little  knew  under  what  trying  circumstances  that 
sacred  promise  made  to  the  blind,  would  forcibly  return  to 
her. 

A  few  hours  later  Izetta,  traveling-satchel  in  hand, 
alighted  from  the  hack  in  front  of  a  spacious,  imposing 
edifice,  which  announced  to  the  public  in  golden  letters 
over  the  arched  doorway :  “  College  of  Music.” 

Izetta’s  heart  sank  within  her,  as  she  gazed  up  at  the 
tall  marble  building,  with  its  long,  narrow,  coldly-staring 
windows,  its  gables  and  turrets. 

She  would  have  sat  down  on  the  stone  stops  ap.d  ened, 

had  it  not  been  for  the  passers-by. 


70 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


She  asked  herself  why  everyone  stared  at  her  in  such 
wonder. 

She  never  once  dreamed  it  was  her  wondrously  lovely 
foreign  face  that  caused  the  ladies  who  passed  her  by  to 
look  so  coldly  on  the  beautiful,  forlorn  girl,  and  the  men  to 
pause  in  unfeigned  admiration,  taking  a  lingering  back¬ 
ward  glance  as  they  pursued  their  journey. 

Izetta  ascended  the  marble  steps  and  timidly  rang  the 
bell,  clutching  the  Rev.  Dr.  Morleigh’s  letter  nervously  in 
her  hand.  A  tidy  waiting-maid  answered  the  summons. 

“I  should  like  to  see  Madame  Root,  if  you  please,”  said 
Izetta. 

“Surely  you  are  not  the  music-teacher  madam  was  ex¬ 
pecting  from  Silvernook?”  asked  the  maid,  curiously. 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  simply,  and  she  wondered  why 
a  suppressed  giggle  shook  the  girl’s  frame,  as  she  ushered 
her  into  the  reception-room  to  await  madam’s  appearance. 

Like  the  exterior,  the  interior  of  the  house  was  imposing 
in  its  stately  appointments;  no  unnecessary  article  found 
lodgment  there;  an  air  of  stiffness  pervaded  the  elegance  of 
the  establishment,  which  struck  a  cold  chill  to  Izetta’s 
heart. 

“All  brightness  and  joy  have  gone  from  me,”  she  said  to 
herself.  ‘  ‘  I  shall  try  to  wear  my  life  out  as  patiently  as  I 
can.” 

She  was  so  young  to  have  had  such  thoughts. 

So  intent  was  Izetta  with  her  own  thoughts  she  did  not 
hear  the  measured  thread  of  approaching  footsteps,  nor  the 
rustling  of  a  stiff  silk  dress  as  it  swept  over  the  thick 
carpet. 

“You  wished  to  see  me,  I  believe?”  said  a  hard,  metallic 
voice  at  her  elbow. 

Izetta  raised  her  eyes  like  a  startled,  timid  fawn  to  the 
speaker's  face. 

“I  had  thought  you  wished  to  see  me ,  madam,”  she  re¬ 
plied. 

Madame  Root  looked  at  the  shrinking  young  girl  before 
her  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 

“Surely  you  are  not  the  person  I  was  expecting  from  Sii¬ 
vernook?”  she  asked,  interrogatively. 

Izetta  bowed,  placing  the  letter  of  Rev.  Dr.  Morleigh  in 
her  hands. 

She  never  forgot  the  angry,  ominous  frown  that  crossed 
her  face. 

Once,  twice,  even  a  third  time  she  carefully  perused  its 
contents.  Izetta  watched  the  hard,  set  face"  thinking  on 
what  a  slight  thread  hung  her  hopes  of  remaining  at  the 
college.  She  was  quite  expecting  the  stern  lips  to  decide 
against  her. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


71 


“  Of  course,  I  can  give  you  a  trial  to  test  your  abilities,” 
said  madam.  “  Yet  it  is  utterly  useless  to  think  of  engag¬ 
ing  you  for  the  position  you  sack ;  it  requires  a  person  older 
than  yourself,  more  dignified,  and  commanding.” 

Again  those  words  sounded  like  a  death-knell  in  the  girl’s 
ears.  ,  . 

“You  have  a  good  knowledge  of  vocal  as  well  as  instru¬ 
mental  music,  I  presume?” 

“Yes,  madam.” 

“  What  is  your  voice?” 

“Soprano,” answered  Izetta. 

“  That  is  quite  against  you,  ”  replied  madam.  ‘  ‘  We  were 
in  need  of  a  contralto  voice.  Step  this  way,  miss,”  she 
glanced  rapidly  at  the  letter  she  held  in  her  hand,  “  Miss 
Bienzi,  step  this  way  if  you  please ;  it  may  as  well  be  said 
I  gave  you  the  trial  asked  for.” 

She  led  the  way  to  the  music-room,  which,  at  that  hour 
of  the  morning  was  quite  deserted. 

A  grand  piano  stood  open;  it  seemed  like  a  dear,  old, 
familiar  face  to  the  girl. 

“Your  own  selection,”  said  madam,  briefly,  waving  her 
to  be  seated.  “I  must  ask  that  it  may  be  short.” 

For  an  instant  the  white  fingers  ran  lightly  over  the 
keys.  Izetta  had  never  sung  since  the  night  of  her  grand¬ 
father’s  death. 

As  she  sat  there,  the  ship  plowing  through  the  dark 
waters,  tipped  by  the  silvery  light  of  the  stars,  and  the 
moonbeams  drifting  through  the  fleecy  clouds,  rose  up  be¬ 
fore  her.  Again  her  lips  took  up  the  sad,  sweet  strain. 

There  was  a  low,  subdued  trill  in  the  great,  wide  room, 
then  the  young,  sweet  voice  broke  forth  in  all  its  wondrous 
melody,  like  a  yearning  soul,  first  in  hope,  joy,  and  glad¬ 
ness,  gradually  dying  away  to  subdued  despair. 

Izetta  was  thinking  of  Alderic,  the  lost  love  of  her  heart 
and  soul ;  then  the  room  filled  with  the  most  pathetic  wail 
ing  that  ever  broke  forth  in  the  power  of  song. 

The  room  was  quite  empty  when  they  had  entered  it ;  now 
it  was  crowded  with  a  breathless  throng. 

As  the  last  notes  of  that  wondrous  young  voice  died 
away,  a  young  girl  with  a  sweet,  sad  face,  framed  in  wavy, 
auburn  hair,  fell  in  a  swoon  at  Izetta’s  feet. 

Those  who  lifted  her  never  forgot  the  glorious  light  that 
lit  up  the  white  face. 

Silently  the  throng  dispersed. 

Izetta  and  Madame  Boot  stood  facing  each  other — quite 
alone. 

Madame  Boot  understood  at  once  why  Doctor  Morleigh 
had  sent  this  young  girl  to  her. 

“  If  she  were  only  older,”  thought  madam. 


72 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


She  recognized  Izetta’s  wonderful  talent  would  be  a  valu« 
able  acquisition  to  the  college ;  her  extreme  youthfulness 
alone  was  against  her. 

She  motioned  Izetta  to  a  seat,  touching  sharply  a  call- 
bell  lying  on  the  table. 

“Send  Miss  Glendyke  to  me,”  she  said  to  the  servant 
who  answered  the  summons. 

A  few  moments  later  that  lady  appeared. 

There  are  faces  which  attract  or  repel  us  at  a  single 
glance.  Miss  Glendyke’s  face  was  undeniably  one  of  the 
latter. 

She  was  a  woman  who  might  have  passed  for  youthful, 
but  a  keen  observer  could  detect  in  the  hard  expression  of 
the  face  that  she  was  probably  on  the  shady  side  of  thirty; 
she  was  of  medium  height,  slightly  inclined  to  portliness; 
her  black  hair  was  curled  low  upon  her  forehead,  brought 
back  into  a  double  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  fastened 
with  a  very  long,  narrow  silver  comb  worn  lengthwise. 

There  was  no  color  in  her  pale  face,  and  its  expression 
was  at  all  times  disagreeable;  her  mistaken  idea  of  digni¬ 
fied  pride. 

Miss  Glendyke’s  eyes,  cold,  searching,  and  merciless,  fell 
upon  the  desolate  young  stranger;  it  was  plainly  evident 
that  there  would  never  be  friendship  between  them.  For 
one  brief  instant  their  eyes  met ;  cruel,  harsh  Miss  Glen¬ 
dyke’s,  and  innocent,  trusting  Izetta’s. 

There  was  a  brief  conversation  carried  on  in  a  low  key 
hurriedly  between  Madame  Root  and  her  principal. 

“I  may  be  in  the  wrong,  as  you  say,”  Izetta  heard 
Madame  Root  say,  ‘  ‘  still  I  am  determined  to  try  her  for  at 
leasta  quarter.” 

Miss  Glendyke’s  lip  curled  contemptously,  and  she  shrug¬ 
ged  her  shoulders  ominously,  making  a  parting  suggestion 
in  a  deep,  coarse  voice,  as  she  swept  from  the  room . 

Izetta  never  afterward  saw  a  hateful  curl  of  the  lip  but 
she  unconsciously  associated  it  with  disagreeable  Miss  Glen- 
dyke. 

“I  have  concluded  to  try  you  for  one  quarter,  Miss 
Rienzi,”  madam  said  in  her  slow,  impressive  way;  “if 
mutually  agreeable  at  the  expiration  of  that  time,  I  may 
re-engage  your  services ;  although  without  references  from 
former  instructors,  I  take  you  upon  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Morleigh’s  recognizance.” 

Izetta  hardly  knew  whether  she  felt  happy  or  very  sorry. 
If  anyone  had  spoken  just  one  kind  word  to  her  at  that 
moment,  the  chances  are  that  she  would  have  burst  into 
tears. 

Twice  she  attempted  to  tell  Madame  Root  that  she  was 
not  Ivetta  Rienm,  but  Ivetta  Ross.  The  words  froze  on  her 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  IB 

lips ;  she  dared  not  tell  her  pitiful  sorrow  to  the  cold  wom¬ 
an  before  her. 

“  Perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  as  it  is,”  she  sighed,  wearily. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  CLASS  OF  THE  “  PRETTY  TEN.” 

Soon  after  the  same  maid  that  had  shown  her  to  the  re¬ 
ception-room  appeared  to  conduct  her  to  her  apartment. 

“Your  dinner  may  be  served  in  your  room  to-day,” 
called  Madame  Root,  coldly;  “to-morrow  morning  I  should 
like  you  to  come  to  the  music-room  early,  that  I  may  as¬ 
sign  you  your  duties.” 

“Yes,  madam,”  replied  Izetta,  as  the  woman  turned 
haughtily  away. 

“Did  you  say,”  asked  the  lingering  maid,  her  hand  on 
the  door-knob,  “Madame  Root  had  engaged  you  to  teach 
music  here?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  wearily. 

“Did  Miss  Glendyke  see  you,  miss?”  queried  the  girl. 

“  Yes,”  responded  Izetta. 

“Well,  well,”  muttered  the  girl,  “that  is  the  strangest 
thing  I  ever  did  hear  of.” 

“What  is  it  that  is  so  strange?”  asked  Tzetta. 

“Won’t  you  never  breathe  a  word  of  it  if  I  tell  you?” 
asked  the  girl,  re-entering  the  room  and  closing  the  door 
softly  after  her. 

Izetta  smiled  ;  she  was  very  glad  of  even  the  maid’s  chat¬ 
ter  to  divert  her  thoughts  even  for  the  moment  from  her 
own  sad  thoughts. 

“You  see,  miss,  it’s  just  this  way  here,”  commenced  the 
maid,  mysteriously.  “All  the  people  in  this  whole  insti¬ 
tution  are  a  mean  set,  if  I  do  say  it.” 

“Hush,”  remonstrated  Izetta,  in  a  pained  voice,  “you 
should  not  talk  so.” 

“  But  it’s  so  all  the  same,”  reiterated  the  girl,  stubbornly; 
“  why,  there’s  never  a  new  teacher  comes  here  but  she’s 
abused  in  a  shameful  way;  the  nicer  she  is  and  quiet,  the 
more  she’s  talked  about  and  picked  on,”  continued  the  girl, 
with  a  sidelong  look  at  the  beautiful  face;  “that’s  why 
they’re  always  wanting  more  talent  here,  as  they  call  it, 
You  can  hear  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  getting  in  new 
scholars  and  needing  ’em,  but  I  tell  you  it  isn’t  that;  they 
can’t  get  no  teacher  to  stay,  and  it’s  all  that  Miss  Glen- 
dyke’s  fault,  the  hateful  old  thing,”  cried  the  girl;  shaking 
her  forefinger  warningly.  “  She’s  the  worst  of  the  lot;  she 
sets  ’em  up  against  a  body  from  the  first.  All  I’ve  got  to 
say  is,  I’d  look  out  for  her  if  I  were  you.” 

With  this  parting  advice,  the  girl  quitted  the  room,  ancl 


74  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

Izetta  was  left  to  the  contemplation  of  her  own  confused 
thoughts. 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  with  a  low,  bitter  cry,  the 
one  great  cry  of  her  life  issuing  from  her  white  lips. 

“Oh,  Alderic,  my  love,  my  husband,  where  are  you?” 

The  tea  which  was  sent  up  to  her  remained  untasted ;  it 
was  not  the  hunger  of  the  body  but  of  the  heart  which 
Izetta  felt  most  keenly. 

She  rose  early  the  next  morning,  donning  one  of  her 
plainest  dresses,  a  dark  silver-gray  that  fell  in  graceful 
folds  about  her  shapely  form,  and  her  dark  curls  were 
drawn  back  by  a  pearl  comb,  which  was  her  only  orna¬ 
ment. 

The  picturesque,  foreign  beauty  of  Izetta  struck  Mad¬ 
ame  Root  forcibly  as  she  entered  the  music-room.  Soon 
after  the  young  ladies  of  the  college  took  their  seats. 

By  nature  Izetta  was  timid  and  shrinking ;  there  she  sat, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  a  sea  of  curious  faces  before  her; 
she  could  see  the  curling  of  red  lips,  the  flashing  of  angry 
eyes  and  tossing  of  heads,  even  the  murmur  of  their 
voices  was  in  a  measure  audible  to  her  from  where  she 
sat. 

One  face  only  out  of  that  vast  throng  smiled  kindly  up¬ 
on  her,  the  sweet,  quiet,  sad  young  girl  whose  tender  soul 
hed  overflowed  at  her  song  the  previous  day.  The  mem¬ 
ory  of  that  smile  was  priceless  to  Izetta  all  the  years  of  her 
after-life. 

“I  shall  try  hard  to  win  their  love,”  thought  Izetta,  as 
she  listened  to  their  low  whispers,  which  ended  in  sup¬ 
pressed  bursts  of  laughter. 

There  was  rebellion  in  their  hearts  and  war  in  their  faces. 
She  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  govern  the  fiery  lava 
of  Vesuvius  as  stayed  the  torrent  of  their  dislike;  her  very 
beauty,  and  the  picturesque,  large,  dark,  starry  eyes  were 
the  main  causes  of  their  envy. 

They  fully  determined  the  young  stranger  should  not 
have  a  comfortable  time  at  the  College  of  Music  if  they 
could  help  it. 

There  was  another  prime  cause;  on  reception  days 
Madame  Root’s  establishment  was  crowded  with  the  elite , 
for  the  pretty  young  ladies  of  the  College  of  Music  were 
far-famed,  and  many  a  match  was  made  through  these  re¬ 
ception  days. 

Many  who  sat  intently  studying  that  exquisite  face,  so 
like  none  other,  trembled  for  their  own  laurels. 

A  class  of  the  dullest  pupils  were  assigned  to  Izetta, 
young  girls  who  were  apt  enough  at  penning  billets-doux , 
but  who  could  not,  or  would  not,  interest  themselves  in 
their  music,  simply  to  annoy  their  young  teacher. 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  75 

Fretful  parents  complained  of  the  want  of  attention 
shown  by  their  daughter.  Madame  Root  was  alarmed. 

“This  state  of  affairs  will  never  do,  Miss  Rienzi,”  she 
said. 

Izetta  was  in  despair. 

“  Whose  fault  was  it  if  they  would  not  learn,”  she  cried 
out  to  herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room. 

The  class  of  “the  pretty  ten,”  as  Izetta’s  was  called,  en¬ 
joyed  their  little  ruse  immensely ;  they  even  jeered  in  her 
race,  predicting  a  turbulent  future  for  her. 

Among  the  visitors  at  the  college  on  reception  days  was 
a  wealthy  young  lieutenant ,  drawn  thither  by  the  galaxy 
of  beauty,  he  often  laughingly  declared. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Miss  Glendyke’s  charms  had 
lingered  in  his  memory;  but  like  many  another  careless 
young  fellow  he  soon  tired  of  her,  and  what  was  to  Miss 
Glendyke  the  one  sweet  dream  of  her  life,  was  to  the  young 
officer  a  few  easily-spoken,  pleasant  words,  and  quite  as 
easily  forgotten. 

Vernor  Key  never  thought  seriously  of  any  woman, 
until  the  sweetest,  saddest  face  he  had  ever  gazed  upon 
burst  upon  his  startled  vision. 

He  meant  to  win  her  for  his  wife,  if  he  could.  He  had 
come  across  this  pearl  in  quite  an  unexpected  fashion. 

It  was  a  chilly  morning  in  early  winter,  Vernor  Key 
strolled  leisurely  up  the  marble  steps  of  the  college. 

It  was  rather  an  early  hour  for  visitors,  still,  as  he  was 
quite  a  favorite,  he  knew  admittance  would  not  be  denied 
him. 

The  long  halls  were  quite  deserted ;  from  where  he  stood, 
he  had  a  good  view,  unobserved,  of  the  music-room  beyond. 

A  young  girl  sat  at  the  piano,  her  head  drooped  over  the 
keys;  while  beside  the  instrument,  her  arms  folded  across 
her  chest,  stood  Miss  Glendyke. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  look  of  fierce  hatred  she  bent 
upon  the  girl  before  her.  Vernor  Key  was  completely  elec¬ 
trified  at  the  change  apparent  in  her  hitherto  smiling  coun¬ 
tenance. 

“How  abhorrent  is  the  face  of  an  angry  woman,”  be 
muttered,  feeling  that  he  should  turn  away,  but  some 
impulse  chained  him  to  the  spot. 

“You  will  play  the  last  bar  over  again,  Miss  Rienzi.” 

The  white  fingers  rippled  over  the  ivories,  and  the  sweet, 
sad  strains  touched  a  hidden  chord  in  Vernor  Keys  heart; 
the  saddest  and  sweetest  that  ever  fell  on  a  human  heart. 

“Ha!  I  thought  as  much,”  continued  Miss  Glendyke, 
wrathfully ;  “no  wonder  that  passage  sounded  unfamiliar 
to  me;  how  dared  you  insert  those  variations;  answer  me, 
girl  1” 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


?8 

The  slight  figure  swayed  to  and  fro. 

Vernor  could  not  catch  the  reply. 

‘  ‘  I  am  in  time  to  frustrate  a  grand  scheme  of  yours, 
Miss  Eienzi.  No  doubt  you  would  like  to  get  your  name  up 
for  a  composer,  but  you  shall  never  build  up  your  triumphs 
from  this  establishment,”  she  said,  in  her  coarse,  deep, 
peculiar  voice. 

In  another  moment  she  had  snatched  the  music  from 
Izetta’s  hand,  tearing  it  spitefully  into  a  thousand  shreds. 

For  one  brief  instant  Izetta’s  face  was  turned  partially 
toward  him,  and  the  voice,  the  sweetest  Vernor  Key  had 
ever  heard,  faltered,  brokenly: 

“  I  am  very  sorry  indeed  if  I  have  displeased  you,  Miss 
Glendyke ;  believe  me,  I  never  once  thought  of  being  known 
as  a  composer.” 

A  low,  discordant  laugh  was  Miss  Glendyke’s  only  re¬ 
sponse. 

“I  assure  you  I  was  only  practicing  it  for  my  own 
amusement,”  continued  Izetta. 

‘  ‘  Amusement,  indeed !  do  not  trouble  yourself  with  un¬ 
necessary  explanations.  I  can  see  for  myself,”  sneered 
Miss  Glendyke. 

“  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,”  sighed  Izetta. 

A  look,  freighted  with  such  abominable  scorn  and  con¬ 
tempt,  Vernor  Key  never  forgot  it,  crossed  Miss  Glendyke’s 
face. 

“  We  will  waive  all  that,”  she  said;  “  by  rights  I  should 
report  this  affair  instantly  to  Madame  Boot.  A  severe  rep¬ 
rimand  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  school  is  what  you 
richly  deserve.  Leave  the  room  at  once,  Miss  Eienzi,  or  I 
mavbe  tempted  to  change  my  mind.” 

The  next  moment  a  quiet  little  figure  glided  past  the  spot 
where  Vernor  Key  sat,  quite  shaded  by  the  heavy  curtains ; 
he  knew  he  was  unobserved,  for  the  large,  dark,  lustrous 
eyes  were  suffused  with  blinding  tears  that  rolled  off  the 
long,  curling  lashes  in  pearly  drops. 

That  was  the  first  time  Vernor  Key  ever  remembered  an 
imprecation  to  have  willfully  passed  his  lips ;  as  he  turned 
savagely  on  his  heel,  hurriedly  quitting  the  building,  mur¬ 
muring  to  himself: 

•  *  Woman’s  inhumanity  to  woman  is  certainly  heartrend¬ 
ing?” 

Miss  Eienzi — Miss  Eienzi,  the  name  had  a  sweet  musical 
sound  to  his  ears ;  he  was  wondering  when  he  should  see 
her  again. 

The  beautiful,  foreign  face  haunted  him  like  a  dream. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


11 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  STARTLING  EVENT. 

Lieutenant  Xey  haunted  the  college  like  a  shadow. 

A  bright  glow  of  hope  had  dawned  for  a  moment  in  Miss 
Glendyke's  bosom,  only  to  be  extinguished  as  she  heard 
him  remark  to  Madame  Root,  quite  carelessly,  “that  h© 
should  like  to  be  presented  to  the  young  lady  at  the  win¬ 
dow,”  indicating  Izetta,  one  reception-day. 

“Certainly,”  said  Madame  Root,  amiably,  though  at 
heart  greatly  annoyed ;  they  had  scarcely  turned  round, 
ere  the  object  of  their  conversation  was  silently  and  mys¬ 
teriously  spirited  from  the  room. 

Miss  Glendyke  took  great  care  Izetta  should  never  again 
enter  the  reception-room  during  visitors’  hours. 

How  little  Miss  Glendyke  knew  that  no  face  save  one 
had  power  to  charm  the  sweet  young  girl  whose  absorbing 
thought  was  bound  up  in  the  husband  whom  she  believed 
had  so  cruelly  abandoned  her. 

When  a  strange  voice  fell  upon  her  ear,  she  gazed  wist¬ 
fully  at  the  speaker,  to  see  if  it  were  not  he;  she  sought 
for  him  in  the  midst  of  crowds ;  his  face,  and  his  alone, 
was  ever  before  her. 

Izetta  lived  over  in  her  dreams  how  she  should  fling  her¬ 
self  at  his  feet,  when  she  found  him,  and  cry  out : 

“  Alderic,  my  love,  my  love,  do  not  send  me  away  from 

you.” 

Sweet  little  wife,  she  was  so  true  to  her  husband  of  one 
short,  happy  week. 

Much  to  the  young  lieutenant’s  chagrin,  he  never  caught 
more  than  an  occasional  glimpse  of  Izetta. 

Thus  matters  might  have  stood  for  many  a  day  had  not 
a  singular  occurrence  happened. 

One  morning  Izetta  was  standing  in  a  curtained  alcove, 
wondering  how  long  she  should  have  to  live  like  this  and 
how  it  would  all  end,  when  the  sound  of  voices  fell  upon 
her  ear. 

Miss  Glendyke  and  Lieutenant  Key  sauntered  leisurely 
past  her.  Every  word  of  their  conversation,  which  seemed 
commonplace  enough,  fell  distinctly  upon  her  ear. 

“  How  long  do  you  think  you  will  remain  abroad?”  Miss 
Glendyke  was  saying. 

“  That  I  really  cannot  say,”  he  replied. 

“  That  is  hardly  a  definite  answer,”  she  replied,  laugh¬ 
ingly. 

I  assure  you,  I  wish  I  could  guide  my  own  fortunes,” 
sighed  the  lieutenant,  thinking  of  Izetta;  “  but  alas,  I  can* 
not;  I  am  quite  beginning  to  despair* 55 


78 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


‘‘I  can  hardly  realize  that  this  is  your  last  day  in  Ox¬ 
ford,  for  some  time  to  come,  lieutenant;  J  am  very  pleased 
to  s<  e  you  remember  your  old  friends  in  calling  to-day.” 

“  I  had  intended  bringing  an  old  friend  of  mine  up  to¬ 
day,  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  years.  I  do  not  think  you 
have  ever  met  him.” 

‘  ‘  I  might  be  better  prepared  to  answer,  if  you  were  to 
tell  me  his  name,”  she  replied,  archly. 

“  His  name,”  repeated  the  lieutenant,  absently,  “is - 

Ross.” 

Not  another  word  of  their  conversation  reached  Izetta’s 
ears ;  her  heart  was  in  a  whirl  and  her  brain  on  fire ;  she 
had  great  difficulty  in  restraining  herself  from  rushing  out 
and  imploring  the  young  man  to  tell  her  where  she  could 
find  the  Mr.  Ross  of  whom  he  spoke. 

“It  must  be,  oh,  it  must  be  my  husband,”  she  gasped 
out  brokenly  to  herself ;  then,  like  a  cold  avatanche,  the 
lieutenant’s  words  fell  back  upon  her  benumbed  heart; 
“  he  was  going  away  that  very  day.” 

Merciful  Heaven  1  what  should  she  do?  With  him  would 
depart  the  knowledge  she  was  wearing  her  young  life  out 
to  obtain. 

She  must  think  quickly;  whatever  she  decided  to  do, 
must  be  done  at  once. 

Every  moment  that  scudded  past,  laden  with  glorious 
golden  opportunities  she  was  losing. 

She  pressed  her  cold,  clammy  fingers  to  her  hot  brow. 
Already  he  was  rising  to  depart. 

She  parted  the  curtains  and  sped  quickly  from  the  room. 

“If  L  oo  ild  but  reach  the  portico — first ,  I  might  find  an 
opportunity  of  exchanging  at  least  a  few  words  with  him.” 

It  seemed  to  her  she  had  waited  there  long  hours,  so  in¬ 
tense  was  her  excitement ;  in  reality,  but  a  few  moments 
had  elapsed. 

She  heard  his  quick,  springy  tread  as  he  approached;  she 
was  almost  overjoyed  to  find  he  was  all  alone ;  no  one  else 
was  in  sight. 

Lieutenant  Key’s  astonishment  knew  no  bounds  upon 
seeing  Izetta  appear  so  suddenly  from  behind  the  curtains 
and  vanish  from  the  room. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  follow  her  with  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  overtake  her. 

Fortune  favored  him;  as  he  neared  the  portico,  he  saw 
her  leaning  like  a  statue  against  one  of  the  marble  col¬ 
umns. 

Speak  with  her  he  must,  he  told  himself,  at  any  cost; 
and  if  she  smiled — well,  upon  her  smile  hung  his  chances 
of  leaving  Oxford  the  following  morning. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 

There  never  was  a  more  desperate  case  than  his  own,  he 
told  himself. 

He  had  expected  the  darK  eyes  to  droop  as  he  neared 
the  spot  where  she  stood ;  but  the  great,  dark,  eloquent 
orbs  raised  so  inquiringly  to  his,  almost  took  his  breath 
away. 

Now  that  he  stood  almost  beside  her  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  he  was  at  a  loss  as  to  what  he  should  say  to 
her. 

“  If  you  please,  sir,  may  I  speak  with  you  a  moment?” 

The  poor  lieutenant  stopped  short.  Surely  this  was 
some  delicious  dream. 

Again  Izetta  repeated  her  question  before  he  regained 
sufficient  composure  to  answer  her. 

“  Certainly,”  he  replied;  “it  will  be  the  greatest  pleas¬ 
ure  of  my  life  to  answer  as  many  questions  as  you  choose 
to  put  to  me.  Shall  we  return  to  the  reception-room,  Miss 
Rienzi?” 

Izetta  wondered  how  this  stranger  happened  to  know 
her  name. 

“I  had  rather  not,  if  you  please,  sir;  I  would  much 
prefer  speaking  with  you  here.” 

He  saw  she  was  quite  confused  as  to  how  to  proceed. 

“I — I — could  not  help  overhearing  a  part  of  your  con¬ 
versation  with  Miss  Glendyke;”  she  began,  nervously. 

The  lieutenant’s  face  certainly  expressed  his  astonish¬ 
ment,  yet  he  spoke  no  word. 

“  You — you — spoke  of  a  Mr.  Ross,”  she  went  on,  hurried¬ 
ly;  “  I  could  not  help  asking  you  if  you  would  kindly  de¬ 
liver  a  message  from  me  to  Mr.  Ross.  I  ask  it  as  a  great 
favor,  sir.” 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  suddenly  exploded  at  his  feet  he 
could  not  have  been  more  astounded. 

“You  wish  me  to  take  a  message  from  you  to  Mr.  Ross?” 
he  queried,  hardly  daring  believe  he  had  heard  aright. 

“If  you  please,  sir,”  answered  Izetta,  simply,  noting  the 
strange  expression  on  his  face,  and  adding,  timidly:  “If 
you  knew — oh,  sir,  you  could  riot,  would  not  refuse  me !” 

The  lieutenant  actually  believed  he  was  losing  his  senses; 
he  was  quite  positive  his  reason  was  playing  a  trick  upon 
him. 

“  You  will  say  to  him,  if  you  please,  I  would  like  him  to 
call;  say  to  him  I  have  waited  so  long — so  long !  No  word 
of  reproach  shall  pass  my  lips;  say  I  have  freely  promised 
that.  There  will  be  no  blot  on  the  past  if  he  will  only 
come  back  to  me.  Will  you  tell  him?”  she  whispered. 

“  I  will  tell  him,  certainly,  all  you  have  said,”  he  re¬ 
sponded,  slowly;  “but - ” 


80 


a  fatal  wooing. 


The  sweet,  red  lips  trembled  eagerly,  deep  flushes  coming 
and  going  over  her  white  face. 

“Do  you  think  he  will  come  to-day?”  she  asked,  hesitat¬ 
ingly. 

“Mr.  Ross  is  a  courteous  gentleman,”  responded  the 
lieutenant,  gravely,  ‘  ‘  and  when  I  tell  him  you  have  so 
earnestly  requested  his  presence,  I  have  no  doubt  he  will 
come  immediately.” 

Vernor  Key  wondered  at  the  ecstatic  joy  that  swept 
across  her  face. 

He  would  have  given  the  best  years  of  his  life,  if  a  look 
like  that  had  passed  over  her  face  on  his  account. 

“Why  does  that  which  we  covet  most  elude  our  grasp?” 
he  pondered,  as  he  walked  slowly  down  the  street,  sorely 
puzzled  as  to  what  it  all  could  mean. 

All  the  morning  Izetta  was  extremely  nervous,  now  that 
the  one  great  longing  of  her  heart  was  to  be  suddenly  re¬ 
alized  ;  she  was  bewildered,  the  air  seemed  to  stifle  her. 

She  never  remembered  how  the  hours  rolled  by  as  she 
waited  in  eager  expectancy. 

“Would  he  really  come  to  her?”  was  the  cry  that  ever 
and  anon  broke  from  her  lips,  as  she  listened  eagerly  at 
each  peal  of  the  bell. 

At  last  the  welcome  sound  fell  upon  her  ear ;  a  moment 
later  the  waiting-maid  handed  her  two  cards,  announcing 
that  the  gentlemen  awaited  her  in  the  reception-room. 

She  ganced  at  the  cards;  one  read,  “  Vernor  Key,”  and 
the  other,  “A.  Ross.” 

Izetta  fell  on  her  knees,  pressing  the  dear  name  to  her 
lips  and  covering  it  with  kisses. 

Ah!  she  must  go  down  to  him  at  once.  She  wondered 
how  she  was  to  greet  him  with  a  stranger’s  eyes  upon  her. 

“  If  he  had  only  come  alone !”  she  murmured. 

She  brushed  her  dark,  glossy  curls  back  from  her  fair 
face,  little  dreaming,  as  she  fastened  a  few  crimson  rose® 
in  her  hair,  how  exquisitely  lovely  she  looked.  She  only 
remembered  Alderic  had  once  admired  her  hair  worn  so. 

She  walked  down  the  long,  silent  corridor  like  one  in  a 
dream;  her  heart  beat  tumultuously  as  she  told  herself 
each  moment  she  was  nearing  her  husband. 

If  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  she  would  fling  herself  in¬ 
to  his  embrace  with  a  glad,  happy  cry;  if  he  looked 
haughtily,  coldly  upon  her,  she  felt  she  would  die  then  and 
there  at  his  feet. 

“  He  might  pity  me  then,  and  kiss  my  face,”  she  said  to 
herself. 

With  these  thoughts  she  turned  the  knob;  the  huge 
oaken  door  swung  heavily  back  on  its  hinges. 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  81 

Hesitatingly  she  crossed  the  threshold,  her  brain  in  a 
whirl. 

She  put  out  two  little,  fluttering  white  hands  gropingly 
and  slowly  raised  her  great,  dark,  starry  eyes  to  the  face 
of — Mr.  Ross! 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

DEMANDING  AN  EXPLANTION. 

Izetta  raised  her  lovely  eyes. 

As  they  encountered  those  of  the  gentleman  before  her, 
she  started  back  with  a  low,  despairing  cry ;  she  was  dimly 
conscious  of  Lieutenant  Key  saying: 

“Mr.  Aaron  Ross,  Miss  Rienzi.” 

Her  white  lips  parted  in  a  sharp,  agonizing  cry. 

“I  have  waited  so  long,  so  long,  and  ’tis  not  he,”  and  she 
fell  in  a  deep  swoon  at  the  stranger’s  feet. 

For  an  instant  only  the  two  gentlemen  gazed  at  each 
other  in  consternation.  Mr.  Ross,  a  kindly,  elderly  gentle¬ 
man  of  perhaps  some  fifty  years,  was  the  first  to  recover 
himself  and  touch  the  bell  sharply,  bringing  the  servants 
instantly  to  the  room. 

“  The  young  lady  has  fainted,”  said  the  lieutenant.  “  I 
should  advise  her  wants  to  be  seen  to  as  speedily  as  possi¬ 
ble.” 

He  made  some  remark  about  the  heat  of  the  room,  but 
the  keen  attendants  were  not  so  easily  baffled ;  they  sur¬ 
mised  something  greatly  out  of  the  usual  order  of  things 
had  transpired ;  perhaps  some  mystery  they  could  unearth ; 
they  meant  to  probe  the  affair  to  the  very  root. 

“  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  go,”  suggested  Mr.  Ross  to  the 
lieutenant.  “You  see,  my  dear  sir,  this  is  exactly  what  I 
predicted ;  the  young  lady  has  undoubtedly  made  a  mis¬ 
take.  I  am  sorry  tor  the  poor  child ;  she  felt  the  disap¬ 
pointment  keenly.” 

“Iam  completely  dumfounded,”  confessed  the  lieuten¬ 
ant.  “I  cannot  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  mystery,  al¬ 
though  I  feel  there  is  one.” 

“  It  is  strange  you  cannot  understand  this  affair,”  replied 
Mr.  Ross.  “  From  what  you  told  me  she  had  said  this  morn¬ 
ing,  and  from  her  present  actions,  I  draw  my  own  conclu¬ 
sions.” 

“Would  you  mind  expressing  them?”  asked  Yernor. 

“  Certainly  not.  but  you  must  remember  they  are  only 
mere  suppositions,  and  take  them  for  what  they  are  w^rth. 
I  gather  that  the  young  lady  has  a  lover  probably  of  the 
name  of  Ross,  from  whom  she  has  been  separated  by  some 
means ;  anyone  can  see  it  is  an  affair  of  the  heart.  As  she 
1>old  you,  she  heard  you  mention  a  Mr.  Ross  this  morning; 


82 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


the  young  lady  jumped  at  conclusions,  which  ended  in  send' 
ing  for  the  one  whom  she  supposed  was  her  lover.  Maiden’s 
freaks  are  often  hard  problems  to  solve,  my  dear  friend,” 
continued  Mr.  Ross,  sagaciously.  “Women  in  general  are 
hard  problems;  a  man  may  devote  all  of  his  life  to  the 
engima  to  give  it  up  at  last.  You  may  take  it  for  granted 
we  never  understand  them;  in  fact,  I  might  say,  that  is 
their  principal  charm.” 

The  tiit  ory  of  Mr.  Ross  was  quite  lost  upon  Vernor  Key; 
he  had  heard  but  one  sentence — Izetta  undoubtedly  had 
a  lover.  If  he  felt  uncomfortable  before,  with  no  known 
rival  in  the  field,  he  felt  doubly  so  now  at  the  very  idea  of 
a  prospective  one. 

If  his  affairs  just  then  were  not  in  the  shape  they  were, 
demanding  his  presence  elsewhere,  he  would  have  re¬ 
mained  in  Oxford  and  settled  his  chance  of  winning  her 
beyond  a  doubt. 

The  young  lieutenant  cared  for  Izetta  more  than  he  ever 
cared  to  admit  to  himself. 

He  had  raised  Izetta  from  the  floor ;  for  one  brief  instant 
the  beautiful  head  had  lain  against  his  shoulder;  his  arms 
had  been  about  her,  and  the  poor  fellow  had  said  to  him¬ 
self,  as  he  gazed  down  on  the  lonely  face: 

‘  ‘  Ah,  sweet  one,  you,  and  no  other,  shall  be  my  wife.  I 
should  have  but  one  thought  in  life,  that  of  making  you 
happy.  If  cruel  fate  should  separate  us,  I  shall  go  down 
to  my  grave  unmarried.” 

Vernor  Key  meant  every  word  that  he  said. 

Izetta  was  carried  to  her  room,  and  Madame  Root  quickly 
summoned;  each  attendant  had  his  or  her  theory  of  the 
matter,  and  bv  the  time  madam  reached  the  scene,  matters 
had  assumed  alarming  proportions. 

One  servant  was  quite  sure  she  heard  loud,  angry  words 
issuing  from  the  reception-room  ;  another  had  heard  a 
sharp,  piercing  voice  cry  out,  “’tis  he,  ’tis  he!”  while  still 
another  hinted  in  a  vague  manner  of  the  words  he  had 
heard  the  stranger  utter. 

Madame  Root  was  intensely  annoyed.  Straightway  Miss 
Glendyke  was  summoned,  who  impaneled  quite  a  jury  on 
the  spot. 

“Well,  well,”  said  Miss  Glendyke,  emphatically,  “there 
was  something  dark  about  some  people’s  ways.” 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  significant  look  she  cast  on 
the  still,  white  face  lying  against  the  pillow,  as  to  whom 
the  words  “  some  people  ”  referred. 

“We  will  let  the  matter  rest  where  it  is  now,  and  to¬ 
morrow  we  will  fully  investigate  this  matter,”  said  Madame 
Root,  severely,  sweeping  haughtily  from  the  room,  followed 
h.y  Miss  Glendyke,  who  could  scarcely  repress  her  malicious 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


83 


delight  in  nnt'c:pation  of  the  sweei  morsel  on  the  morrow. 

None  but  Becky,  the  maid,  remained  behind.  She  ad¬ 
vanced  close  to  the  couch  on  which  Izetta  lay  so  white  and 
still. 

“Poor  little  thing,”  sighed  Becky,  “how  unfit  you  do 
look  for  the  knockings  about  of  this  world.  I  knew  how 
they  would  act  to  you — I  said  so  from  the  very  first.” 

She  brushed  back  the  dark  curls  that  strayed  over  the 
pillow,  murmuring: 

“  It  will  be  a  dark  to-morrow  for  you,  I’m  afraid.” 

A  tear  dropped  from  Becky’s  honest  eyes  upon  the  small, 
white  hand;  she  hastily  gathered  up  a  corner  of  her  ging¬ 
ham  apron,  and  brushed  it  away. 

The  action  aroused  Izetta. 

“  Is  that  you,  Becky?”  she  sighed. 

“  Yes,  miss,”  answered  the  girl,  meekly.  “  I  had  some¬ 
thing  to  tell  you ;  I  couldn’t  go  away  and  leave  you  lying 
there  so  white  an’  still,  till  I  said  it.” 

At  that  moment  a  rush  of  memory  brought  back  to 
Izetta's  mind  all  that  had  transpired. 

“  I  must  have  fainted,”  she  murmured. 

“Yes,  ma’am,  you  did,”  answered  Becky. 

“I  hope  Madame  Root  does  not  know  of  it,”  whispered 
Izetta,  in  a  startled  voice.  “  Do  you  think  she  has  heard 
of  it,  Becky?” 

“  That  she  has,  miss,”  answered  Becky,  shaking  her  head, 
“and  it’s  only  this  minute,  she  and  that  Miss  Glendyke 
left  the  room.” 

“  What  were  they  doing  here?”  asked  Izetta,  in  a  scared 
voice.  “  Tell  me  about  it — tell  me  all  they  said.” 

There  was  not  much  to  tell,  but  as  Becky  repeated  it,  a 
faint  tinge  of  color  arose  in  her  listener’s  face. 

What  the  morrow  had  in  store  for  her,  she  could  not 
even  guess. 

The  dark,  ominous  cloud  of  some  coming  event  was 
slowly  casting  its  shadows  before. 

Iz  tta  had  gleaned  from  Becky’s  conversation  that  they 
did  not  actually  know  what  had  caused  her  to  faint. 

She  was  very  thankful  that  Lieutenant  Key  left  Oxford 
on  the  morrow;  they  would  never  know  the  cause  of  her 
agitation,  she  told  herself.  She  flushed  scarlet  when  she 
wondered  what  the  two  gentlemen  must  have  thought  of 
her  strange  behavior ;  her  position  was  certainly  the  most 
awkward  one  imaginable,  how  could  she  explain  it?  what 
could  she  say  in  her  own  defense? 

That  morning  her  hopes  had  been  so  high,  now  they  lay 
crumbled  in  ruins  at  her  feet. 

Ah !  had  it  been  her  husband,  how  different  life  would 
have  been  for  her. 


84 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“  Do  you  know,  Becky,”  she  asked,  suddenly,  “if 
Madame  Root  spoke  with  the  gentlemen  who  were  in  the 
reception-room?” 

“  No,  miss,  I  am  sure  she  did  not.  I  saw  them  leave  a 
moment  or  two  after  we  were  summoned.” 

Izetta  felt  greatly  relieved. 

“  Can  I  make  you  more  comfortable,  miss?”  queried 
Becky,  as  if  loath  to  depart. 

“  No,  thank  you,  Becky,  I  am  doing  very  nicely.” 

“If  ever  you  need  a  friend,  miss,”  said  honest  Becky, 
coming  a  step  nearer,  “  will  you  come  to  me?  I  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  you,  miss,  indeed  I  would.” 

Izetta  smiled  up  into  the  kind,  homely  face  bending  over 
her,  and  pressed  warmly  the  girl’s  work-worn  hand. 

“Yes,  Becky,  I  will  always  remember  it,”  she  said. 

With  a  pleasant  “  good-night,”  the  girl  left  the  room. 

The  next  morning  dawned  bright  and  clear. 

The  maple  boughs  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  keen,  frosty 
air,  nipping  the  autumn  leaves  that  had  left  the  protecting 
shelter  of  the  boughs  to  whirl  through  the  air — red  in  the 
sunshine,  gold  in  the  shade. 

Izetta  looked  sorrowfully  out  upon  the  bare  branches, 
upon  which  but  a  few  clinging  autumn  leaves  remained. 

She  sighed  as  she  thought  how  her  poor  grandfather  had 
always  loved  them ;  how  he  had  murmured : 

‘  ‘  As  bathed  in  blood,  the  trailing  vines  appear, 

While  round  them,  soft  and  low,  the  wild  wind  grieves; 

The  heart  of  autumn  must  have  broken  here, 

And  poured  its  treasure  out  upon  the  leaves.” 

“  Poor  grandfather,”  she  whispered,  “no  autumn  leaves 
are  drifting  o’er  your  watery  grave.” 

At  that  moment  a  servant  at  the  door  announced  that 
Madame  Roof  wished  to  speak  with  her  at  once. 

Izetta  had  not  forgetten  what  Becky  had  said  the  previ¬ 
ous  evening,  and  she  was  trying  to  nerve  herself  for  the 
coming  interview. 

A  few  moments  later  she  was  ushered  into  madam’s 
presence. 

All  hope  died  out  of  her  heart  as  before  her,  in  solemn 
array,  sat  the  full  quota  of  teachers  of  the  college,  Miss 
Grlendykein  their  midst. 

Once  again  the  hope  died  out  of  Izetta’s  heart  of  telling 
Madame  Root  her  pitiful  story.  Her  lips  were  sealed,  an 
icy  band  seemed  pressing  around  her  heart. 

It  was  strange  the  pitiful  pleading  in  that  sweet,  young 
face  did  not  melt  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  those 
stern,  frozen  breasts. 

There  was  a  set,  stoical  expression  on  the  faces  of  that 
grim  circle :  no  mercy  need  be  expected  from  them, 


a  Fatal  wooim.  85 

Izetta  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  clutched  the  back 
of  a  chair  for  support. 

“We.  the  faculty  of  the  College  of  Music,  have  sent  for 
you  to  demand  an  explanation  of  yesterday’s  behavior ;  we 
will  hear,  if  you  please,  what  you  have  to  say  for  yourself, 
Miss  Rienzi,”  said  Madame  Root,  slowly,  laying  stress  upon 
each  particular  word. 

“I — I — ladies,”  faltered  Izetta,  beseechingly,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other.  “It  was  all  a  cruel  mistake, 
I - ” 

“So  we  have  observed,”  commented  madam,  grimly,  “ a 
grievous  mistake  on  your  part.” 

The  quivering  lips  and  tearful  eyes  of  the  young  girl 
would  have  melted  hearts  of  stone. 

The  hearts  of  the  faculty  of  the  College  of  Music  were 
made  of  harder  material,  invulnerable  to  pity. 

“We  are  waiting  with  patience  to  know  the  cause  of  yes¬ 
terday’s  disturbance.” 

“I  cannot  tell  you  ”  said  Izetta,  respectfully  but  fbmly. 

“What!”  exclaimed  madam,  opening  her  eyes  widely; 
“  am  I  to  understand  you  refuse  us  an  explanation?” 

“I  would  tell  you  if  I  could,”  replied  Izetta,  in  a  low 
voice,  “but.  oh.  madam,  I  cannot,  I  cannot  tell  you  more 
than  this.  I — oh,  believe  me,  it  was  all  a  mistake !” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  CRUEL  SENTENCE. 

“Well,”  said  Madame  Root,  impressively,  “we  have 
all  agreed  as  t  o  what  course  should  be  pursued  in  case  the 
explanation  proved  unsatisfactory  to  us,  have  we  not,  la¬ 
dies?”  she  added,  turning  to  the  calm,  grim  circle  on  her 
left ;  whereupon  each  person  nodded  her  head  gravely  in 
the  affirmative. 

“Please  do  not  be  hard  upon  me,  ladies,”  sobbed  Izetta, 
wringing  her  hands;  “I  have  suffered— oh,  so  much!” 

At  this  remark  each  one  of  the  stoical  circle  glanced 
knowingly  at  her  neighbor,  with  a  peculiar  suspicion  of  a 
wink.  No  one  vouchsafed  a  reply. 

“  There  are  some  sorrows  which  enter  our  lives,”  said 
Izetta,  plaintively,  “which  are  too  bitter  to  repeat;  mine 
is  one  of  them.” 

“If  I  had  known  there  was  that  which  through  shame 
should  cause  you  to  remain  silent  concerning  your  past 
life,  we  should  never  have  given  you  refuge  at  the  College 
of  Music,  should  we,  ladies*”  again  addressing  the  circle, 
who  grimly  chorused: 

“  Never  1” 


66 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


1 


“Oh,  madam,”  cried  Izelta,  in  agony,  “  do  not  speak  SO; 
I  am  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.” 

Although  innocentJy  meant  and  innocently  uttered,  Izet- 
ta's  words  had  again  condemned  her  in  the  hearing  of  the 
grim  audience;  their  worst  opinions  were  confirmed  by 
those  pure  lips. 

Madame  Root  turned  slowly  and  impressively  to  her 
confederates. 

‘  ‘  I  see  no  other  course  than  the  one  agreed  upon  in  this 
case,  do  you,  ladies?” 

The  ladies  of  one  accord  arose  slowly,  responding  metal¬ 
lically  : 

“  We  see  no  other  course,  madam.” 

“We  have  concluded,”  said  madam,  slowly,  noting  the 
effect  of  each  word  on  her  quivering  victim,  “  that  it  w  ill  be 
necessary  to  dispense  hereafter  with  your  services,  Miss 
Rienzi.  We,  the  faculty,  wish  it  understood  that  we  have 
expelled  you  from  the  College  of  Music.” 

For  some  moments,  Izetta  hardly  realized  the  great  blow 
that  had  befallen  her. 

Madame  Root  opened  the  door  with  a  calm,  cold  bow. 

“  The  porter  will  call  for  your  luggage  in  an  hour  or  two,” 
she  said. 

Izetta  felt  all  remonstrance  was  useless;  the  conversa¬ 
tion  was  at  an  end. 

What  else  could  she  do  but  pass  from  their  presence,  a 
cruel  example  of  woman’s  inhumanityr  to  woman? 

Izetta  paused  hesitatingly  on  the  threshold. 

“  If  I  had  a  recommendation  from  you,  madam,  I - ” 

“  I  am  forced  to  courteously  but  firmly  refuse  your  re¬ 
quest,”  said  Madame  Root;  “I  cannot  conscientiously  rec¬ 
ommend  to  another  roof  one  whom  I  refuse  to  harbor 
beneath  my  own.  Good -morning,  Miss  Rienzi.” 

Again  the  warp  of  fate  was  weaving  its  web  closer  around 
her. 

She  was  so  young  to  bear  the  weight  of  sorrow,  such  ag 
was  hers. 

As  she  retraced  her  steps  to  her  own  apartment,  she  met 
a  few  of  the  scholars  on  tne  stairway  ;  she  noticed  they  all 
turned  their  heads  away. 

“What  have  I  done?”  she  asked  herself,  wearily,  “  th® 
world  is  so  cruel  to  me!” 

Kind-hearted  Becky  was  her  only  friend  in  need. 

She  could  not  go  back  to  Silvernook — w  here  could  she 
go,  what  could  she  do? 

Then  a  practical  idea  occurred  to  her;  she  would  procure 
a  boarding-place  and  seek  for  a  situation. 

She  counted  over  the  contents  of  her  purse.  Yes,  her 
means  were  ample  for  the  purpose. 


A  FATAL  WOOING  SI 

“Where  to,  miss?”  asked  the  driver,  as  he  mounted  the 
box  an  hour  later. 

“  I  should  like  to  find  a  nice,  quiet  boarding-house;  do 
you  know  of  any  such?” 

He  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

“A  boarding-place,  such  as  you  would  like,  miss,  is 
pretty  hard  to  find  in  Oxford.  I’m  around  rather  much, 
an’  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know  of  any.  There’s  only  one  place 
that  I  can  really  recommend.” 

“Take  me  there,  if  you  please,”  she  answered. 

In  the  course  of  a  half  hour,  the  hack  stopped  before  a 
neat  frame  house,  upon  which  was  painted  in  unpreten¬ 
tious  black  letters,  “  Intelligence  Office,”  and  beneath  this 
a  small  sign  of  “  Boarding.” 

Izetta  was  ushered  into  a  neat  little  parlor,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Mrs.  Guth  made  her  appearance. 

“What  can  I  do  for  you,  miss?”  asked  the  landlady,  in  a 
cheery,  bustling  way  that  made  Izetta  feel  quite  at  home. 

“  I  should  like  to  stay  with  you  for  awhile,”  she  replied, 
“until  I  procure  a  situation.” 

“Ah!”  said  Mrs.  Guth,  briskly,  “I  think  I  can  accommo¬ 
date  you;  and,  by  the  way,  you  have  come  to  just  the 
place  you  want.  I  have  an  intelligence  office  here,  too,  with 
some  of  the  best  people  in  Oxford  for  patrons,  and  if  there 
is  anybody  can  get  you  just  the  place  you  want,  I  am  that; 
body.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  looked  at  the  sweet,  young  face,  won¬ 
dering  what  sorrow  had  visited  her,  for  she  read  a  deep 
tragedy  in  the  dark,  sorrowful  eyes. 

“  Of  course  you  have  good  references,  miss?”  she  said,  in-  ‘ 
terrogatively. 

“  No,”  replied  Izetta  sadly,  “  I  have  no  references  what¬ 
ever.” 

“  I  am  sorry,  miss,”  she  said,  “  but  of  course  I  could  not 
think  of  sending  you  to  any  of  my  customers  without  rec¬ 
ommendations.  If  I  were  to  judge  from  your  face,  that 
would  be  sufficient  for  me,  but  there  are  faces  that  are  sad¬ 
ly  deceptive— I  'do  not  mean  ofEense  when  I  say — I  have 
learned  not  to  trust  too  much  to  appearances. 

She  saw  the  distressed  expression  on  the  wistful  face. 

“  You  might  remain  here  a  week  or  so  until  you  looked 
about,”  continued  Mrs  Guth,  kindly. 

Izetta  gladly  availed  herself  of  the  opportunity,  paying 
for  two  weeks’  board  in  advance. 

“  I  shall  certainly  find  something  to  do  in  that  time,”  she 
told  herself. 

Izetta  bad  never  been  thrown  so  much  on  her  own  re-, 
sources  as  now.  A  long,  weary  week  had  passed.  Every¬ 
where  she  had  been  met  with  the  same  reply,  no  one  could 


88 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


think  of  engaging  her  without  reference.  Often  she  had 
been  rudely  repulsed. 

“How  dared  Mrs.  Guth  send  them  a  person  whom  she 
could  not  recommend?”  they  said.  “  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  take  your  name  from  my  books,  Miss  Rienzi,”  she 
said  at  last.  “  I  cannot  get  the  ill  will  of  any  more  of  my 
customers;  I  really  cannot.  I  have  done  what  I  Gould  for 
you,  I  am  sorry  it  was  without  success.” 

Mrs .  Guth  was  wondering  how  long  she  would  be  able  to 

E ay  for  her  lodgings;  she  was  heartily  sorry  she  had  taken 
er  in. 

Again  the  last  dollar  was  taken  from  Izetta’s  purse. 

“  I  must  find  something  to  do,  or  starve,”  she  told  her¬ 
self. 

She  looked  up  at  the  bright  blue  sky  and  fleecy  clouds. 
“Ah,  mother,  mother,  if  I  had  but  you,”  she  cried,  “I 
might  bear  it  patiently!” 

Since  she  had  left  Madame  Root’s  the  word  husband  had 
never  crossed  her  lips. 

“  He  has  left  me  to  die,”  she  cried  out  in  bitterness,  “  let 
me  try  to  forget  him.” 

It  was  easy  to  say  those  words,  but  only  Heaven  knew 
how  that  young  heart  yearned  for  him. 

She  was  so  fragile  to  buffet  the  wild  storms  of  life. 

Izetta  knew  so  little  of  the  ways  of  the  world;  still  she 
readily  understood  that  Mrs.  Guth  would  wish  her  to  go  at 
once,  when  she  had  no  money  to  pay  for  her  board. 

Twice  dark  thoughts,  like  grim  sentinels,  had  rushed 
across  her  brain. 

“  I  shall  end  it  all  to-morrow,”  she  told  herself  wearily. 
“After  to-morrow  I  shall  never  need  a  recommendation.” 

She  did  not  ask  herself  if  men  would  forget,  and  God 
would  forgive  what  she  so  sorrowfully  meditated  as  a  pan¬ 
acea  for  her  woe. 

As  she  neared  the  porch  of  her  humble  abode  she  saw 
Mrs.  Guth  in  the  doorway. 

“  I  have  good  news  for  you,  Miss  Rienzi,”  she  said;  “I 
have  secured  you  a  situation.” 

The  swift  joy  mounted  to  Izetta’s  eyes;  she  looked  the 
gratitude  she  could  not  express  in  words. 

“  Sit  down,”  said  Mrs.  Guth,  “  while  I  tell  you  all  about 
it.  It  is  with  a  very  wealthy  family,  by  the  name  of 
Hampton — the  Hamptons,  of  Hampton  Place,  in  the  suburbs 
of  Newburyport,  ten  miles  from  Boston.  The  family  con¬ 
sists  of  mother  and  son.  The  lady  is  exceedingly  peculiar. 
I  cannot  explain  more  to  you.  She  is  in  want  of  a  com¬ 
panion — it  is  against  my  rules,  still,  in  this  case  I  recom¬ 
mended  you  myself,  Miss  Rienzi,  and  she  has  consented  to 
see  you.” 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  89 

She  had  scarcely  ceased  speaking  when  a  coach,  drawn 
by  two  dark  horses,  drew  up  before  the  door. 

The  equipage  was  a  magnificent  one,  the  only  thing 
which  detracted  from  its  appearance  was  the  dwarfish 
driver,  who  scrambled  nimbly  down  from  his  seat,  throw¬ 
ing  open  the  carriage  door  for  an  elegantly-attired  young 
man  whom  Mrs.  Guth  met  at  the  door ;  the  next  moment 
the  stranger  was  ushered  into  her  presence. 

Izetta  could  never  explain  the  strange  sensation  of 
horror  that  stole  over  her  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  bowing 
quietly  to  Heath  Hampton’s  careless  nod. 

There  was  a  something  in  the  bold  glance  of  evident 
admiration  he  cast  upon  her  that  caused  her  heart  to 
flutter  like  a  caged  bird  against  its  prison  bars. 

She  noticed  he  was  darkly  handsome;  still,  without 
knowing  why,  she  felt  a  great  distrust  of  him. 

She  also  noticed,  as  he  raised  his  white  right  hand  to  his 
forehead,  it  bore  across  it  a  deep,  irregular,  livid  scar, 
upon  which  her  eyes  rested,  strangely  fascinated. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  TERRIBLE  WARNING. 

The  preliminaries  were  satisfactorily  arranged,  and 
Izetta  was  soon  seated  in  the  coach  beside  Heath  Hampton, 
whirling  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Hampton  Court. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  Hampton’s  true  character 
begin  to  show  itself,  and  Izetta  noticed,  with  feelings  of 
horror,  that  there  were  fumes  of  wine  upon  his  breath ;  it 
was  a  rare  occasion,  indeed,  when  such  was  not  the  case. 

“I  had  no  idea,”  he  said,  breaking  the  silence  Izetta  so 
persistently  attempted  to  maintain,  “my  mother  had 
secured  such  a  little  jewel  of  a  companion;  indeed,  I  may 
say  for  the  first  time  in  life  I  shall  envy  my  own  mother 
such  charming  society.  ” 

Izetta  was  mentally  praying  their  destination  could  not 
be  far  distant.  In  her  wildest  dreams  she  had  never 
anticipated  such  a  horror  as  this  which  was  forced  upon 
her. 

“If  you  please,  sir,”  she  said,  with  dignity,  “  I  should  be 
very  grateful  if  you  would  not  talk  to  me  so ;  I - ” 

A  low,  mocking  laugh  interrupted  her. 

“  I  sincerely  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  prudish,  Miss 
—Miss  Rienzi,”  he  said;  “  if  there  is  anything  I  do  detest, 
it  is  a  prude;  really,  now,  prudery  does  not  become  fresh, 
handsome  young  faces  like  yours ;  leave  that  for  homely 
old  maids;  my  advice  is  wholesome,  I  assure  you.” 

Izetta  shrank  from  him,  pale  with  unspeakable  horror, 
gcorn,  and  disgust  blazing  from  her  dark  eyes,  as  she  pict- 


90 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


ured  to  herself— how  could  she  live  under  the  same  roof 
with  this  man,  when  she  found  even  the  first  few  moments 
passed  in  his  society  almost  unbearable? 

“  Come,  come,  Miss  Rienzi,”  he  said,  “  I  do  hope  we  are 
not  going  to  quarrel.  I  want  to  become  the  best  of  friends 
with  you,  if  possible.” 

Heath  Hampton,  wild  and  reckless  though  he  was,  never 
forgot  the  graceful  dignity  with  which  the  fair  young  girl 
drew  herself  up  proudly,  as  she  answered : 

“There  is  one  way,  sir  and  one  way  only  which  could 
command  my  respect  and  friendship.” 

“  I  should  like  to  be  enlightened,”  he  declared,  ironically. 

“That  one  way,”  repeated  Izetta,  firmly,  “is  to  leave 
me  quite  alone.” 

Heath  Hampton  opened  bis  eyes  very  wide. 

“  Dictated  to  by  my  mother’s  companion,”  he  muttered, 
under  his  breath.  “Well!  well!  this  is  decidedly  rich!” 

Had  he  met  Izetta  under  any  other  circumstances  he 
would  have  been  the  pink  of  propriety,  but,  as  his  mother’s 
paid  companion,  that  was  quite  a  different  affair;  her  evi¬ 
dent  scorn  and  disgust  piqued  him. 

“  I  will  show  her,”  he  thought;  “those  little  airs  and 
graces  are  lost  upon  me.” 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude  to  her,  still  he  meant  she 
should  worship  at  his  shrine  as  the  generality  of  women 
did. 

He  told  himself  that  she  was  really  the  prettiest  piece  of 
prudery  he  had  ever  come  across. 

One  thought  and  one  only  filled  Izetta’s  mind ;  how  long 
would  she  be  obliged  to  sit  opposite  those  bold  scru¬ 
tinizing  eyes  that  seemed  to  burn  tauntingly  into  her  very 
soul. 

Despite  her  utmost  endeavors  to  maintain  her  com¬ 
posure,  she  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  when  the  coach 
stopped. 

Izetta  scorned  his  proffered  hand,  alighting  quite  with¬ 
out  his  aid. 

Heath  Hampton  stood  gazing  after  her  with  a  strange 
expression  crossing  his  wickedly  handsome  face,  and  ag 
she  disappeared  in  the  hall,  he  muttered  quite  inaud- 
ibly : 

“  Ah!  why  not?” 

He  had  spoken  the  words  quite  carelessly,  yet  there  was 
a  pair  of  keen  ears  to  hear  them,  and  a  hissing  voice 
whispered,  as  Hampton  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  to¬ 
ward  the  library : 

“Never — never,  villain,  if  Yatal  can  prevent  it,  you  have 
played  your  last  game,  now  it  is  my  turn ;  even  the  worm 
will  turn  when  bruised,  why  shouldn’t  I?” 


A  FATAL  WOOING 


91 


In  an  apartment  which  had  once  been  luxurious,  but  was 
now  dingy  and  worn  by  age,  Izetta  was  soon  ushered.  A 
small,  dark  little  lady  half  rose  as  she  entered. 

“Ah!  you  are  Miss  Eienzi,  ”  she  said,  “I  have  been  ex¬ 
pecting  you.” 

If  the  son  had  made  an  unfavorable  impression  upon 
Izetta,  who  was  slow  to  judge  of  like  or  dislike,  the  mother 
formed  but  a  little  better  one. 

She  was  small  and  dark,  her  mouth  alone  was  the  only 
pleasant  feature  about  her.  There  was  a  strange,  restless 
expression  about  the  eyes  not  easily  defined  nor  under¬ 
stood. 

Again  Izetta’s  heart  sank ;  she  had  no  thought  she  would 
be  able  to  please  the  critical  lady  before  her. 

“  You  are  young,”  she  said  in  a  crisp  voice,  with  that 

{)eculiar  glance  bent  full  upon  her,  “and  rather  good- 
ooking.  I  will  be  frank  with  you,  I  must  say  to  you  I 
do  not  like  that,  it  is  not  well  for  you;  otherwise  you 
will  be  most  suitable.  There  is  one  thing  I  wish  to  warn 
you  against  from  the  outset;  you  see,  Miss  Eienzi,  I  am 
candid  with  you.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  ever  meet  my 
son.” 

Izetta  was  on  the  point  of  explaining  that  that  calamity 
had  already  happened  her,  when  the  lady  continued: 

“You  will  have  a  very  pleasant  life  of  it  here,  if  you 
strictly  observe  that  one  condition.  I  have  no  doubt  we 
shall  be  mutually  pleased  with  each  other.  You  will 
strictly  avoid  my  son,  will  you  not,  Miss  Eienzi?” 

Izetta  readily  promised  to  fully  obey  her  instructions. 

“I  have  had  apartments  fitted  up  for  you  in  what  we 
call  the  western  wing.  Yatal  will  take  you  to  them,”  add¬ 
ing,  as  she  touched  the  bell:  “  I  shall  not  need  you  until 
after  luncheon;  then  you  may  come  to  me  here.” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,”  said  the  dwarf,  stopping  hes¬ 
itatingly  at  her  door,  “  Mr.  Hampton  requests  you  to  please 
not  mention  having  met  him,  to  his  mother.” 

“Why?”  said  Izetta,  hardly  knowing  what  construction 
to  put  upon  the  strange  actions  which  pervaded  this  house 
of  secrets;  “his  mother  sent  him  for  me  herself.” 

“  No,”  replied  the  dwarf ;  “J  was  the  one  sent.  He  over¬ 
heard  the  message,  and  would  go  to  see  how  you  looked, 
miss.” 

Izetta  looked  surprised. 

“I  do  not  know  why  that  should  have  interested  him,” 
she  said. 

“It  will  be  best  for  you,  miss,  if  you  never  seek  to 
know,”  replied  the  dwarf,  in  a  low,  earnest  whisper. 

Ivetta  felt  faint  and  terrified ;  she  sank  down  on  a  chair 

)  '  1  v  's 


92  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

when  she  found  herself  alone,  wondering  what  it  all 
meant. 

“If  I  only  had  a  little  money,  I  would  not  rest  a  night, 
no,  not  an  hour  beneath  this  mysterious  roof.” 

She  could  not  shake  off  the  forebodings  that  came  over 
her. 

Izetta’s  duties  were  not  arduous;  there  was  much  of  the 
mornings  she  had  quite  to  herself.  The  afternoons  were 
spent  in  reading  to  Mrs.  Hampton. 

Izetta  greatly  wondered  at  the  style  of  books  the  lady 
preferred;  there  was  one  book  in  particular  which  seemed 
to  captivate  her  capricious  fancy.  From  ‘  ‘  Queen  Freder¬ 
icks  Kevenge  ”  she  was  never  weary  of  hearing  selections. 

“What  is  your  idea  of  revenge,  Miss  Kienzi?”  she  asked, 
suddenly,  one  day,  as  Izetta  closed  the  book  with  a  shud¬ 
der. 

This  was  the  very  question  Izetta  had  asked  herself 
many  a  time. 

“I  can  hardly  tell  you,”  answered  Izetta:  “  I  have  often 
heard  that  revenge  is  sweet,  but  I  have  often  thought  for¬ 
giveness  a  thousand  times  sweeter.” 

“Should  you  think  it  strange,”  said  Mrs.  Hampton, 
slowly,  “there  could  be  persons  who  live  only  in  the  hope 
of  revenge?” 

“  I  could  not  imagine  such  a  life,  madam,”  said  Izetta, 
simply. 

“Yet,  like  Queen  Fredericka,  there  are  such  in  real  life,” 
said  Mrs.  Hampton,  slowly;  “they  have  wealth,  position, 
everything  that  should  make  life  enjoyable — yet  they  would 
forego  all  this  for  revenge ;  it  is  their  dream  by  night,  their 
thought  by  day.” 

“  I  should  pity  such  people  more  than  I  can  express,”  re¬ 
plied  Izetta. 

The  lady  laughed  a  short,  hard,  bitter  laugh,  that  had  a 
peculiar  ring  in  it,  so  like  the  son’s. 

“  Had  you  experienced  the  same  sorrows  in  life  that  som© 
people  have,  you  would  not  be  so  sanguine  in  believing  it 
easy  to  forgive  or  forget  a  cruel  wrong.” 

Izetta’s  dark  eyes  wandered  afar  off  across  the  distant 
horizon.  There  were  few  lives  that  held  such  a  hidden  sor¬ 
row  as  her  own,  yet  no  thought  of  vengeance  had  crossed 
her  pure  mind. 

The  subject  was  never  resumed  between  them  again. 

The  first  glance  at  that  beautiful,  young  face,  had  been 
the  doom  of  Heath  Hampton ;  he  was  heedless  of  all  con¬ 
sequences. 

He  fell  to  comparing  her,  quite  unconsciously,  with 
Loraine  Ulvesford,  the  fair,  haughty  beauty,  whom  he 
would  have  married  for  her  money;  he  little  dreamed 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  03 

'rhat  a  cruel  mockery  of  fate  such  a  comparison  would 
necome. 

He  bad  never  loved  Loraine;  her  wealth  had  been  the 
reward  for  which  he  had  striven;  but  he  loved  this  beauti¬ 
ful  Izetta,  with  her  fair,  foreign  face,  as  such  a  reckless 
nature  as  his  was  only  capable  of  loving — for  herself. 

He  had  seen  more  of  life  in  his  twenty-six  years  than 
most  men  at  forty. 

He  had  tested  to  the  full,  that  all  knowledge  begins  with 
experience. 

Izetta  had  been  at  Hampton  Court  only  a  month,  be¬ 
fore  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  another  interview  with 
her. 

All  of  his  numerous  schemes  to  waylay  her  in  the  parlor, 
the  library,  or  the  hall,  failed  signally;  she  never  ventured 
anywhere  where  there  was  the  least  likelihood  of  his 
presence. 

Affairs  should  not  go  on  in  this  way  much  longer,  he 
promised  himself. 

Fortune  favored  him  quite  unexpectedly. 

One  evening,  as  he  entered  the  library,  his  quick  eye 
detected  a  small,  dark-robed  figure  in  the  further  corner 
of  the  room. 

“  Ah!  Miss  Rienzi,”  he  said,  with  a  curious  smile  on  his 
lips,  “  I  have  long  awaited  just  this  opportunity.” 

Izetta  would  have  passed  him,  but  he  coolly  placed  him¬ 
self  before  her. 

“  Not  until  you  have  listened  to  what  I  have  to  say,”  he 
said. 

“  Let  me  pass,  if  you  please,  sir;  I  have  no  wish  to  hear 
you,”  she  replied. 

‘  ‘  Probably  not,  still  you  will  favor  me  by  listening,  all 
the  same.  You  have  mistaken  me  from  the  very  first,  Miss 
Rieuzi.  I  am  a  dangerous  man  to  be  trifled  with.  I  am 
frank  with  you;  my  follies  are  many  and  my  virtues  few; 
my  will  is  my  law.  You  are  the  first  woman  I  have  ever 
met  whom  it  was  possible  for  me  to  love;  for  that  reason 
I  have  decided  to  make  you  my  wife.” 

•‘Sir?”  cried  Izetta,  “  this  is  outrageous.  I  will  not  listen. 
Allow  me  to  pass,  or  I  will  call  for  assistance.” 

“  From  whom  would  you  expect  to  obtain  it?”  he  asked, 
sarcastically,  his  face  was  growing  livid  with  passion. 
“  Have  a  care,  girl !”  he  cried,  “  you  and  you  alone  might 
have  made  of  me  what  you  would — if  I  cannot  win  your 
love  I  swear  none  other  shall !  I  come  of  a  passionate  race, 
quick  to  love  and  as  quick  to  hate !  I  would  win  you  in  spite 
of  the  whole  world — in  spite  of  yourself.  I  love  you  too 
madly  to  have  a  care  as  to  that.” 

Izetta  held  up  her  hands  to  stay  the  mad  torrent  of  his 


94 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


vehement  words;  her  heart  fluttered  wildly;  by  a  great 
effort  she  restrained  herself  from  swooning  at  his  feet. 

“Never,”  she  cried,  “I  would  never  marry  you.  I 
could  not.  I  would  die  first.” 

“Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  shall?”  he  said,  quietly,  his 
hot  breath  scorching  her  face,  his  mocking  eyes  gleaming 
down  into  her  own. 

He  whispered  but  a  few  words  in  her  ear,  yet  those 
few  words  produced  the  most  startling  effect  upon  her. 

Izetta  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  caught  her. 

He  opened  the  door,  with  a  low  bow,  for  her  to  pass. 

“  Think  well  of  what  I  have  said,  Miss  Rienzi;  I  shall 
await  your  answer  here  to-morrow.” 

The  next  moment  Izetta  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LOST  IN  THE  SNOW. 

Long  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  her,  Izetta  leaned 
against  the  balustrade  in  the  corridor,  her  white  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  wildly  asking  herself  if  it  was  not  a 
dream  from  which  she  must  soon  awaken. 

‘  ‘  It  cannot,  oh,  it  cannot  be  true,  ”  she  moaned .  ‘ 4  Heaven 
could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me !” 

Alas,  she  knew  not  which  way  to  turn  from  her  own  mad 
thoughts. 

“Oh,  mother!  mother!”  she  cried,  throwing  open  her 
window,  “what  shall  I  do?” 

The  dark  night  gave  back  no  answer,  save  the  low  moan¬ 
ing  of  the  wind  among  the  towering  pines.  No  friendly 
star  pierced  the  frowing  face  of  the  heavens. 

Izetta  leaned  far  out  on  the  casement ;  the  great,  white 
snow-flakes  drifted  down  upon  her  agonized  face,  but  they 
did  not  cool  her  fevered  brow. 

She  laid  her  hot  cheek  against  the  little  hand  which 
wore  her  marriage- ring,  bitter,  scalding  tears  falling  upon 
it. 

“ Oh,  little  ring,”  she  cried,  “if  you  could  only  tell  me 
where  my  husband  is  to-night.” 

She  closed  the  window  with  a  shudder. 

It  was  the  night  before  Christmas  Eve.  A  bitter  storm 
was  setting  in ;  the  snow-drifts  covered  hill  and  valley  in 
their  cold  embrace ;  the  winds,  freighted  with  their  icy 
burden,  howled  dismally,  and  the  shutters  creaked,  as 
they  swung  restlessly  to  and  fro  on  their  hinges,  yet  the 
darkness  and  the  storm  without  were  nothing  to  the  storm 
of  agony  that  raged  in  Izetta’s  heart  as  she  paced  to  and 
flQ. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


98 


u Grandfather,  grandfather!”  she  wailed,  “this  never 
would  have  happened,  if  you  and  I  had  never  left  sunny 
Italy.” 

But  a  few  fleeting  months  had  passed  since  then,  yet  it 
seemed  to  the  friendless  girl  who  stood  there,  alone  in  the 
greatest  sorrow  her  young  life  had  ever  known,  as  if  long 
years  had  flown. 

She  remembered  hut  too  well  the  vow  that  had  been 
made  to  her  grandfather,  as  the  steamer  plowed  through 
the  dark,  seething  waters:  she  could  hear  again  those 
words,  as  if  spoken  by  an  honest  heart : 

“  I  will  protect  Izetta,  come  what  may.” 

How  had  that  sacred  trust  to  the  dying  been  fulfilled? 
Alderic  had  doomed  her  to  the  coldest,  most  pitiless  neg¬ 
lect. 

The  poor  young  wife,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  flung 
herself  wildly  on  her  knees,  imploring  Heaven  to  tell  her 
why  he  had  married  her,  if  he  meant  to  desert  her.  He 
had  married  her  of  his  own  free  will. 

“Ah,  Alderic,  Alderic!”  she  wailed,  “my  sorrow  is 
greater  than  I  can  bear !” 

Those  last  words  sounded  mockingly  which  Heath  Hamp¬ 
ton  had  tauntingly  uttered : 

“  I  will  wait  until  to-morrow  morning  for  your  answer; 
if  you  consent  we  will  leave  Hampton  Court  together  at 
once;  if  you  refuse,  the  consequences  shall  mock  your 
folly.” 

Izetta  little  realized  the  resources  of  which  a  desperate 
man  was  capable. 

Ruin  and  disgrace  stared  the  poor,  innocent,  hapless 
young  wife  in  the  face. 

On  the  morrow  she  would  be  spurned  from  their  door 
with  scathing  contempt. 

“What  have  I  done,”  she  wailed,  “that  fate  should 
weave  such  a  terrible  web  about  me?” 

She  was  so  guiltless  of  the  dark  ways  of  the  world ;  her 
heart  was  as  pure  as  the  snow-drifts  out  there. 

Like  a  gleam  of  hope  across  her  benighted  soul,  rose  the 
calm,  peaceful  faces  of  blind  Marguirette  and  the  good  old 
flute-maker. 

“If  I  could  only  get  back  to  Silvernook,”  she  thought, 
“  she  would  not  turn  me  from  her  door — other  refuge  I  have 
none.” 

Then  a  terrible  fear  seized  her ;  what  fierce  alternative, 
what  terrible  revenge  would  Heath  Hampton  take  on  that 
to-morrow,  of  which  she  hardly  dared  trust  herself  to  think. 

Once  again  she  went  to  the  window,  peering  out  into  the 
dark,  wild  night. 

“If  I  only  dared,”  she  murmured. 


96 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


The  more  she  thought  of  that  morrow  that  in  a  few  short 
hours  would  dawn  upon  her,  despair  sank  deeper  in  her 
heart. 

If  she  fled  from  Hampton’s  home,  there  and  then,  would 
not  the  son  pursue  her?  It  was  her  last  chance;  she  made 
a  desperate  effort  to  calm  herself,  and  quickly  donning 
cloak  and  hood,  she  sped  noiselessly  down  the  long,  dark 
corridors,  out  into  the  storm  and  the  night;  swift  as  a 
shadow  she  threaded  her  way  through  the  snow-drifts  and 
beneath  the  friendly,  leafless  trees,  until  she  reached  a  pool, 
lying  dark  and  silent  in  its  snowy  bed,  the  white  drifts 
shrouding  its  dark  outline ;  where  solemn  owls  uttered  their 
piercing  cries,  and  flocks  of  ravens  fluttered.  The  snow¬ 
flakes  fell  tremulously  upon  its  dark  waters,  and  were  si¬ 
lently  gathered  into  its  cold,  glassy  bosom. 

Izetta  felt  no  fear,  as  she  knelt  down  on  the  brink. 

“  One  plunge,  and  all  the  bitterness  of  life  will  be  over 
for  me,”  she  muttered. 

The  snow-flakes  fell  unheeded  on  her  long,  dark  hair  that 
blew  across  and  about  her  face  with  the  piercing  storm. 

“ I  am  so  young  to  die,”  she  sobbed ;  “but  I  cannot  bear 
my  sorrow  alone.  Alderic,  Alderic,”  she  wailed,  “you 
will  never  know  how  your  name  was  on  my  lips  as  the 
dark  waters  closed  over  my  head ;  the  silent  pool  can  never 
tell  its  story  or  whisper  to  you  how  dearly  I  loved  you !” 

The  moaning  winds  took  up  the  wild  cry,  echoing  softly : 

“ I  loved  you!” 

Izetta  gathered  her  cloak  closer  about  her;  she  closed 
her  eyes,  her  lips  parted  in  a  sweet,  sad  smile. 

“I’m  coming,  grandfather,”  she  murmured;  “coming, 
coming,  sweet  mother.” 

As  the  words  fell  from  her  lips,  she  started  back  with  a 
low  cry. 

Was  it  the  voice  of  the  young  mother  who  had  hushed 
her  to  rest  on  her  breast,  or  the  night  winds  whispering 
sternly : 

“  What  wculdst  thou  do?  Darest  thou  take  into  thine 
own  hands  the  life  thy  God  hath  lent  thee?” 

“Forgive  me,  angel  mother,”  humbly  whispered  the 
young  girl,  shuddering.  “  Heaven  forgive  me ;  I  had  not 
thought  of  that ;  the  dark  waters  seemed  to  hold  out  their 
arms  for  me ;  the  world  was  so  cold  and  cruel  I  thought  I 
could  find  rest  there !” 

She  knelt  down,  burying  her  face  in  the  cold  snow. 

“Forgive  me,  mother,”  she  sobbed;  “I  have  been  so 
sorely  tried.” 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  the  inky  heavens  above  her, 
graying  her  angel  mother  to  guide  her  faltering  footsteps. 
Slowly  @he  raised  herself  from  her  knees  and  turned  her 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


07 


back  to  the  dark  pool  that  had  so  nearly  engulfed  her, 
pressing  steadily  onward  in  the  face  of  the  storm,  never 
pausing  to  look  back  at  the  great,  dark  building  she  was 
leaving  behind  her. 

One  thought  buoyed  up  her  hopes  and  waning  cour¬ 
age:  each  step  brought  her  nearer  the  humble  flute-mak¬ 
er’s  abode. 

She  remembered  Hampton  Place  lay  directly  midway 
between  Silvernook  and  a  city  they  had  called  Boston. 

She  remembered  Silvernook  must  lie  toward  the  north. 
There  were  no  stars  to  guide  her ;  still  she  told  herself  she 
knew  the  way ;  she  could  not  miss  the  road,  it  could  be 
but  a  few  miles  distant. 

Izetta  watched  the  first  gray  streaks  of  dawn  pierce  the 
dull,  leaden  sky  with  a  grateful  heart.  All  the  night  long 
she  had  pushed  steadily  onward.  It  was  dark  and  lonely; 
she  thanked  God  for  the  friendly  morning  light ;  she  could 
not  be  far  from  there,  she  told  herself. 

Then  she  stood  still  and  looked  about  her.  Merciful 
Heaven!  where  was  she?  She  never  remembered  having 
been  in  that  locality  before.  She  had  been  so  sure  she  was 
in  the  right  path,  whereas,  she  found  herself  in  a  track¬ 
less,  boundless  sea  of  snow. 

She  was  the  only  living  being  amidst  all  that  vast  ex¬ 
panse  of  frozen  whiteness,  whose  outline  was  broken,  here 
and  there,  only  by  some  hardy,  bare-banched  shrub  or  tree 
that  rose  up  darkly  from  its  white,  shrouded  bed ;  the  cold, 
white,  dreary  expanse  of  snow  stretched  out  on  all  sides 
as  far  as  her  eye  could  reach;  no  path  was  discernible 
through  the  uneven  driftings. 

For  some  moments  Izetta  gazed  around  her  in  blank  be¬ 
wilderment  ;  then  her  lips  grew  white  with  a  sudden  fear. 

“I  have  lost  my  way  l”  she  cried  out  in  horror. 

There  was  no  path  before  her,  and  the  footprints  of  her 
own  feet  were  completely  obliterated  by  the  thick,  falling 
snow. 

She  could  not  retrace  her  steps ;  she  sat  down  in  the  snow 
and  tried  to  think. 

Izetta  was  growing  c[uite  used  to  sorrow;  unforeseen 
events  were  ever  thrusting  themselves  unawares  upon  her. 

She  could  see  the  ravens  careening  about  in  the  upper 
air  above  her  head.  One  thought  occurred  to  her : 

“  Should  she  ever  be  able  to  reach  Silvernook?” 

She  felt  cold  and  benumbed ;  she  longed  to  lie  down  in 
the  soft,  white  snow  and  rest.  Yet  she  had  often  heard 
such  rest  meant  death. 

She  would  try  to  bear  up  a  little  longer. 

“  Ah,  well,”  she  thought,  “it  does  not  matter  much  what 
becomes  of  me.” 


98 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


She  had  not  tasted  food  since  the  night  before,  still  she 
did  not  feel  the  need  of  it.* 

She  felt  wofully  tired  and  weary,  that  was  all.  Ere  she 
was  hardly  aware,  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  crimson, 
western  clouds. 

The  darkness  of  night  would  soon  fall  around  her,  ushered 
in  by  the  still  heavily  falling  snow. 

Suddenly  the  chiming  of  far-off  bells  fell  upon  her  ear ; 
at  first  they  sounded  like  church  bells ;  then  she  remembered 
that  this  was  Christmas  Eve. 

As  she  paused  in  the  twilight,  the  jingling  bells  sounded 
nearer  and  nearer.  A  dark  speck  was  skimming  toward 
her  from  the  distant  horizon. 

Could  it  he  a  human  being?  Her  first  impulse  was  one 
of  intense  joy,  which  suddenly  gave  place  to  the  most  piti¬ 
ful  terror. 

‘‘What  if  it  should  be  Heath  Hampton?”  she  thought, 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

Ah,  she  could  screen  herself  behind  the  bushes;  if  it 
was  no  one  who  might  be  seeking  her,  she  would  cry  out  to 
them. 

Izetta  was  not  a  moment  too  soon.  Nearer  and  nearer 
each  moment  dashed  the  sleigh  and  its  occupants  over  the 
white,  crusted  snow. 

Another  instant,  and  they  had  reached  the  very  spot 
where  she  knelt,  screened  by  the  alder  bushes !  they  were 
so  near  she  could  have  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  them 
as  they  grazed  her  hiding-place. 

Had  those  panting  steeds  swerved  ever  so  slightly  toward 
those  alder  bushes,  they  must  have  crushed  her. 

Now  she  could  see  their  faces.  A  voice,  hoarse  with 
wrath,  which  she  knew  but  too  well,  cried  sharply: 

“I  say  she  must  have  come  this  way;  you  stupid  dolt, 
to  have  lost  track  of  the  footprints.” 

“I  could  not  help  it,”  answered  a  voice,  which  she  im 
st  mtly  recognized  as  the  dwarf’s;  “  the  fault  is  the  snow 
falling  so  fast,  not  mine.” 

Suddenly  Vatal  drew  rein. 

“Have  you  forgotten,  sir,  you  are  nearing  dangerous 
ground?  Yonder  lies  Ulvesford  Manor  in  the  distance,  to 
the  right,  there.” 

His  companion  uttered  a  short,  hard,  mocking  laugh, 
that  made  Izetta,  crouching  in  her  ambush,  almost  faint 
with  fear. 

“  I  have  forgotten  nothing,”  answered  Heath  Hampton, 
wrathfully.  “Ulvesford  knows  nothing  of  my  return 
from  abroad.  I  have  succeeded  in  keeping  that  a  profound 
secret.  I  could  not  wish  better  luck  than  to  meet  him 
here  and  now.  He  has  led  a  charmed  life ;  twice  he  has 


99 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 

escaped  me,  once  in  Switzerland,  and  once  on  this  very 
road  by  the  cliff ;  he  shall  never  escape  me  the  third  time. 
He  little  dreams  of  the  vengeance  which  shall  soon  be 
meted  out  to  him. 

“  Fate  seems  against  you  of  late,”  answered  the  dwarf. 

“Yes,  I’m  at  the  bottom  of  the  wheel  now,  Vatal,”  an¬ 
swered  Hampton ;  “  but  it  revolves  quickly.  “  I’ll  soon  be 
at  the  top.  Dame  Fortune  dealt  Dlvesford  the  winning 
cards  in  gaining  the  heiress  of  Lorrimer  Hall.  Even  this 
dark-eyed  little  beauty  has  eluded  my  grasp.  I  was  so 
sure — hark!  what  noise  was  that?” 

The  next  instant  Izetta  met  the  glaring  eyes  of  Heath 
Hampton  gazing  fixedly  upon  her  through  the  branches. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

ULVESFORD  MANSION. 

“What  noise  was  that?”  again  queried  Heath  Hampton. 

“I’m  sure  I  did  not  hear  any,”  answered  Yatal. 

“ Pshaw !”  muttered  the  other,  impatiently,  “I  believe 
I’m  growing  as  fanciful  as  a  woman.” 

His  keen,  shrewd  eyes  had  not  detected  the  startled, 
dark  eyes,  gazing  as  if  fascinated  upon  him. 

“You  had  better  turn  about,  Vatal,”  he  ordered,  “she 
cannot  have  gone  very  far;  we  will  take  a  short  cut 
across,  she  must  be  somewhere  about.” 

The  next  moment  the  horses  were  plunging  on  through 
the  darkness  in  an  opposite  direction. 

“  Mother,”  she  cried,  raising  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  through 
her  tearles  sobs,  ‘  ‘  I  had  rather  lie  cold  and  lifeless  upon 
the  pure,  cold  snow  here,  food  for  the  vultures  of  the  air, 
than  breathe  the  same  air  with  this  human  vulture,  from 
whom  you  have  saved  your  child.” 

The  bitter  cold  and  the  great  mental  excitement  through 
which  she  had  so  lately  passed  were  beginning  to  tell  upon 
Izetta’s  sadly  shattered  nerves ;  her  garments  were  white 
with  the  fallen  snow,  and  with  great  difficulty  she  made 
her  way  step  by  step. 

Once  she  staggered  and  fell.  She  was  beginning  to  feel 
delightfully  warm  and  drowsy ;  the  bitter  cold  seemed  to 
have  passed  harmlessly  by  her.  If  she  could  only  lie 
down  and  rest  a  few  moments,  she  would  feel  refreshed 
directly. 

Suddenly  the  shrill  cry  of  a  night-bird  circling  above  her 
head,  partially  aroused  her  lagging  energy. 

They  had  spoken  of  some  place  at  the  right ;  she  had 
walked  many  miles  and  found  no  such  place,  she  had  told 
herself,  with  a  pitiful  little  laugh  that  sounded  strangely 
weird  among  dark  trees  and  waste  of  snow. 


100 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


Suddenly  the  flashing  of  many  lights  burst  upon  heir 
view;  for  one  brief  instant  she  half  imagined  she  was 
walking  down  the  street  of  some  Italian  city  upon  a  gala 
night.  Delightful  strains  of  music  fell  upon  her  ear. 
The  music  awoke  Izetta’s  soul  to  consciousness  of  her 
position. 

Oh !  how  she  strove  to  reach  the  lights  and  the  music. 
A  few  steps  more  and  she  reached  the  park  gate.  Th* 
sound  of  revelry  was  at  its  height. 

Izetta  crept  up  the  broad  walk,  from  which  the  snow 
had  been  carefully  brushed. 

From  the  great  row  of  windows  which  opened  out  upon 
the  arched  porch  the  shimmering  curtains  were  looped 
back,  and  the  brilliant,  rosy  light  poured  warmly  out  upon 
the  cold,  white  snow. 

Izetta  crept  nearer  and  nearer,  her  dark  garments  trail¬ 
ing  after  her. 

She  could  see  great  throngs  of  gayly-dressed  women, 
against  backgrounds  of  great  banks  of  roses,  who  seemed 
to  laugh  at  the  cold,  the  storm,  and  the  snow  without. 

Their  arms  and  shoulders,  ’neath  gossamer  tulles,  shone 
like  polished  marble  under  the  blazing  light  of  the  colored 
chandeliers. 

Izetta  pressed  her  white,  wild  face  closer  against  the 
window-pane.  No  one  could  see  her,  she  told  herself ;  no 
one  would  know  she  was  watching  out  there  in  the  cold 
and  the  darkness. 

Her  long,  dark  hair,  on  which  the  white  snow-flakes 
lay  thick,  tossed  about  her  face  with  the  breeze.  Her 
dark,  sorrowful  eyes,  like  gleaming  stars,  shone  strangely 
lustrous. 

She  could  have  gazed  on  the  scene  forever,  with  never  a 
thought  of  the  cold  or  the  storm.  She  quite  forgot  she  had 
intended  to  inquire  of  someone  the  way  to  Silvernook. 

She  was  riveted  to  the  spot  by  the  mirth  and  lights 
within.  4 

o 

******* 

Loraine  Ulvesford  intended  her  first  Christmas  at  home 
should  be  a  magnificent  affair. 

An  hour  before  her  guests  arrived,  she  stood  before  her 
mirror,  clasping  a  diamond  bracelet  on  her  white,  rounded 
arm,  that  gleamed  and  quivered  with  every  motion  with 
a  thousand  jets  of  flame,  her  proud,  haughty  mouth  was 
wreathed  in  smiles. 

Loraine  was  always  thinking  of  her  husband  when  she 
smiled. 

He  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  her,  his  head  bent  on  his 
hands  in  a  strange  fit  of  despondency,  which  even  sho 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  101 

could  not  charm  away  with  her  witty  banter  and  winning 
smile. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him. 

“Ulmont,”  she  asked,  “  are  you  quite  sure  you  are  pleas¬ 
ed  that  you  married  me?” 

She  was  leaning  both  her  elbows  on  his  chair,  her  lovely 
eyes  gazing  up  into  his  own. 

“  It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  for  you  to  be  asking  such  a 
question  of  me,  Loraine.  ” 

She  put  back  the  fair  hair  from  his  forehead  with  her 
soft,  white,  jeweled  hand,  answering  slowly: 

“Ulmont,  my  husband,  I  can  never  feel  quite  sure  of 
your  love  for  me.  Sometimes  when  your  arms  are  about 
me,  and  your  lips  pressed  to  mine,  I  feel  a  strange  sensa¬ 
tion,  as  if  a  strong  hand  had  suddenly  thrust  us  asunder, 
and  your  kisses,  while  yet  warm,  seem  to  grow  cold  on 
my  lips ;  there  are  times  you  seem  so  silent  and  abstracted 
— why  is  it?” 

“There  has  ever  been  a  weight  on  my  mind  since  the 
accident  which  befell  me ;  probably  some  trifling  affair,  it 
may  be  after  all.  ” 

“  Do  you  think  it  is  the  memory  of  someone  whom  you 
have  met  abroad?”  she  asked  anxiously. 

“  Jealous,  Loraine,”  he  laughed;  “it  is  more  likely  some 
message  I  have  promised  to  deliver  for  some  friend  which 
eludes  my  memory  so  persistently.” 

“You  have  never  loved  anyone  except  me,  have  you, 
Ulmont?” 

“  You  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  my  first,  last  and  only 
love,  do  you,  Loraine?” 

“No ;  to  doubt  you  would  be  death,”  she  answered ;  “yet, 
somehow  you  are  not  the  same;  you  have  seemed  so 
changed  since  you  went  abroad.  You  are  not  gay  and 
merry  as  before.” 

Ulmont  laid  his  handsome  head  back  upon  the  crimson 
cushions  with  a  merry  laugh. 

“  How  would  you  have  it,  my  pretty  Loraine ;  if  a  man’s 
love  does  not  strengthen  and  deepen  under  the  influence  of 
so  peerless  a  wife  as  yourself,  he  may  safely  be  labeled 
heartless — better  have  lived  a  bachelor  forlorn.” 

Still  Loraine  was  not  satisfied;  she  would  be  the  sharer 
of  his  every  thought. 

“I  believe  I  am  growing  jealous,”  she  said,  with  a  smile; 
“still  I  am  thankful  I  have  only  your  thoughts  for  rivals.” 

A  rival — it  was  the  first  time  such  an  idea  had  crossed 

her  mind. 

“  If  I  had  ever  had  a  rival  in  your  affections,  Ulmont,” 
she  said,  “  I  could  not  have  answered  for  myself.” 

She  was  the  last  d&ugh ter  of  the  long  line  of  Loraine^; 


103 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


it  had  often  been  said  they  were  never  crossed  in  love. 
Heaven  pity  the  man  who  was  weighed  in  the  balance  of 
their  affections  and  was  found  wanting. 

Loraine,  with  a  bright  glow  in  her  heart,  went  down 
among  her  guests,  little  dreaming  of  the  terrible  web  fate 
was  weaving  around  the  husband  she  so  madly  loved. 

Had  her  very  life  been  asked  as  a  ransom  for  his,  she 
would  cheerfully  have  paid  it.  Those  who  saw  Loraine 
Ulvesford  that  night  in  the  glow  of  her  peerless  beauty, 
never  forgot  her,  or  the  strange  occurrence  that  made  that 
Christmas  Eve  a  memorable  one. 

Mirth  was  at  its  height,  intoxicating  the  sense  with  rap¬ 
turous  bewilderment.  Loraine  had  given  the  first  waltz  to 
Doctor  Stafford ;  he  regretted  when  it  was  over. 

“  It  is  not  often  I  am  favored  with  so  graceful  a  partner 
as  yourself,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,”  he  said,  gallantly,  leading 
her  to  a  seat  in  a  bower  of  bending  ferns  that  arched  above 
one  of  the  long,  French  windows  that  led  out  into  the 
porch.  * 

Loraine  was  about  to  made  some  light  rejoinder,  but  the 
words  died  away  on  her  lips  in  a  piercing  scream  whioh 
brought  the  guests  hurriedly  about  her  as  she  pointed  to  the 
window. 

There,  crouching  close  against  the  dark  pane,  they  be¬ 
held  a  white,  wistful,  beautiful  face,  framed  by  long,  dark, 
disheveled  hair,  and  gleaming,  mournful  eyes. 

The  white,  cold  snow  on  the  ivy  vines,  and  the  long, 
glistening  icicles  formed  a  weird  background  that  struck  a 
subtle  fear  to  the  hearts  of  all  who  gazed. 

In  an  instant  flashed  across  Loraine’ s  mind  that  beauti¬ 
ful,  foreign  face  that  had  haunted  her  so  strangely  in  the 
vine-covered  Alps. 

The  gentlemen  had  started  out  to  search  for  the  owner 
of  the  face  which,  when  observed,  had  instantly  disap¬ 
peared. 

Loraine  looked  around  for  Ulmont ;  he  was  not  among 
them.  She  heard  strange  murmurs  from  the  porch  with¬ 
out. 

“  Keep  the  ladies  back,”  the  gentlemen  were  saying;  but 
the  ladies  would  not  he  kept  back ;  they  would  know  all 
about  the  disturbance. 

Loraine,  heedless  of  shawl  or  wrap,  made  her  way  out 
to  the  group  hovering  around  some  dark  object  lying  upon 
the  snow. 

The  gentlemen  entreated  her  to  return  to  the  house. 

“You  will  catch  your  death  of  cold,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,” 
they  urged;  “see,  you  are  shivering  now.” 

As  Loraine  persisted  in  seeing  what  was  the  matter,  the 
group  silently  made  way  for  her. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


103 


There  was  something  in  the  still  beauty  of  the  white  up¬ 
turned  face  lying  there  that  touched  a  deep  chord  in 
Loraine’s  heart,  as  she  knelt  down  in  the  snow  beside  her. 

In  after  life  people  often  spoke,  who  witnessed  that  sight, 
of  the  strange  contrast  they  made.  Loraine  in  her  robe  of 
velvet,  the  flashing  lights  quivering  on  her  flaming  jewels 
and  on  her  golden  hair,  and  the  slight,  delicate  figure  lying 
there  wrapped  in  the  dark,  snow-covered  cloak,  the  sweet 
face,  perfect  as  if  carved  in  marble,  cn  which  the  dark, 
silken  lashes  lay,  seemed  the  face  of  a  child;  there  was  a 
pitiful  expression  about  the  mouth,  hard  to  see  on  one  so 
young. 

“  Where  is  Doctor  Stafford?”  called  Loraine. 

“  I  am  here,”  he  responded,  promptly;  “I  have  forced 
some  wine  down  the  poor  creature’s  throat ;  she  will  soon 
recover,  Mrs.  Ulvesford.” 

“  Why  is  she  not  brought  into  the  house?”  asked  Loraine. 

“  I  have  ordered  a  carriage  to  have  her  removed  to  the 
hospital,”  replied  the  doctor;  “  little  good  comes  of  har¬ 
boring  people  of  this  kind  in  one’s  home.” 

There  was  something  appealing  in  the  still,  white  face 
that  made  the  heart  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  wife  warm  un¬ 
consciously  toward  her. 

It  was  a  strange  fate  which  lead  these  two  women  to- 

§  ether,  these  two  who  so  passionately  loved  the  same  lius- 
and — the  bitterest  of  rivals. 

“  The  child  must  be  brought  into  the  house,  for  the  pres¬ 
ent,  at  least,”  responded  Loraine,  resolutely. 

The  long  cloak,  which  had  hitherto  quite  concealed  the 
silent  figure  lying  there,  was  suddenly  tossed  back  by  the 
driving  wind. 

“Merciful  heaven!”  cried  Loraine,  as  she  gazed  in  star¬ 
tled  awe  upon  the  white,  marble  face ;  ‘ 1  she  is  no  child ; 
she  is - ” 

“  Hush !”  commanded  the  doctor,  who  hastily  replaced 
the  cloak  about  the  quiet  form,  and  bore  her  tenderly 
within.  “  Shall  she  not  be  sent  to  the  hospital,  Mrs. 
Ulvesford?”  he  asked,  anxiously. 

“No,”  answered  Loraine,  simply;  “  I  could  not  have  the 
heart  to  turn  the  poor  creature  from  the  sheltering  walls 
of  Ulvesford  Mansion.” 

How  little  she  knew  who  it  was  whom  she  harbored ;  she 
knew  not  that  she,  who  had  been  borne  into  that  home  so 
helplessly,  should  by  rights  have  reigned  there,  its  mis¬ 
tress,  the  loved  and  honored  wife  of  its  master . 


104 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  THE  GRAY  DAWN. 

The  mirth  and  revelry,  which  had  been  momentarily 
suspended,  flowed  on  again  with  redoubled  zest,  little 
heeding  the  strange  occurrence  which  was  taking  place  in 
another  part  of  the  building. 

The  doctor  had  been  quickly  and  secretly  summoned. 

“  I  am  sorry  for  making  a  pleasure  visit  one  of  busi¬ 
ness,”  said  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  apologetically;  “but  there  may 
be  occasion  for  your  services  before  morning,  doctor.” 

“  I  shall  be  only  too  pleased  to  render  what  assistance 
lies  in  my  power.” 

‘  ‘  If  anything  out  of  the  usual  order  transpires,  you  will 
please  inform  me  at  once,”  said  Mrs.  Lorrimer. 

“  Certainly.” 

It  was  a  strange,  unatural  sight;  Doctor  Stafford  in 
full  ball-room  costume,  sprays  of  white  heath  in  the  lapel 
of  his  coat,  watching  gravely  the  flickering  shadows  that 
crossed  the  most  beautiful  face  upon  which  he  had  ever 
gazed. 

He  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  interest  in  the  friendless  young 
outcast. 

Once  the  dark  eyes  opened  wide,  and  a  sweet  voice 
whispered : 

“  Alderic,  darling,  is  that  you?” 

Doctor  Stafford  clinched  his  hands  in  a  tight  grip  as  he 
brushed  a  tear  from  his  eye ;  then  patiently  resumed  his 
watching. 

In  the  gray  early  dawn  of  the  Chistmas  morning,  the 
doctor  hurriedly  called  for  Mrs.  Lorrimer. 

“You  wished  to  be  notified  if  anything  unusual  oc¬ 
curred  ;”  there  was  a  kindly  smile  on  his  careworn  face  as 
he  continued :  “  I  am  happy  to  inform  you  of  the  presence 
of  a  handsome  male  child.,, 

“Oh!  Dr.  Stafford!” 

“It  is  very  true,  madam,”  he  replied,  leading  the  way  to 
the  apartment  he  had  lately  quitted. 

“See,”  whispered  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  pointing  to  the  white 
hand  of  the  young  mother  as  it  lay  beside  the  infant;  “  she 
wears  a  marriage-ring.  Poor  thing,  where  is  her  husband, 
I  wonder?” 

“  That  is  not  an  easy  question  to  answer,  madam.” 

Suddenly  the  dark  eyes  opened  wide,  fixing  themselves 
upon  the  elegantly -attired  lady  and  gentleman  bending  over 
her. 

“  Where  am  I?”  asked  Izetta,  in  a  weak  voice. 

The  doctor  took  up  a  little  bundle  which  lay  beside  her; 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 


m 


the  wee,  piping  voice  of  a  little  babe  fell  upon  her  ear; 
those  two  standing  at  that  bedside  never  forgot  the  glorious 
light  that  broke  over  the  young  mother’s  face  when  she 
heard  the  voice  of  her  little  babe. 

Tears  sprang  to  Mrs.  Lorrimer's  eyes,  cold,  proud  wo¬ 
man  though  she  was,  and  the  doctor,  quite  used  to  such 
sights,  turned  away  his  head. 

“  You  are  not  to  talk,  my  dear,” commanded  the  doctor, 
placing  the  little  bundle  in  her  arms.  “You  are  to  lie 
still,  and  keep  very  quiet.” 

As  the  sun  rose  on  that  well-remembered  Christmas 
morning,  and  the  chiming  church  bells  kept  time  to  the 
merry  sleigh  bells’  jingle  and  the  merry  laugh  of  sportive 
children,  a  great  sense  of  security  and  peace  fell  over 
Izetta  as  she  closed  her  eyes  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 

Loraine  was  almost  incredulous  when  she  heard  the 
news. 

Ulmont  had  been  quite  indignant  when  he  heard  of  the 
affair. 

Loraine,  who  was  sitting  beside  him  when  the  intel¬ 
ligence  was  brought  her,  looked  up  into  her  husband’s  face, 
reading  intuitively  his  thoughts. 

“  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  Ulmont?”  she  asked, 
timidly. 

He  gazed  thoughtfully  over  the  distant  hills  as  he  an¬ 
swered  : 

“  Loraine,  this  is  the  first  stranger  ever  born  beneath 
the  roof  of  the  Ulvesfords.  Every  member  of  the  family 
was  born  here,”  he  repeated,  “  and  here  they  returned  to 
die.  It  is  strange,  the  first  break  has  been  made  in  our 
time,  Loraine.  I  had  rather  it  had  been  otherwise.” 

“I  am  sure  I  did  not  know,  Ulmont,  I  never  thought.” 

“It  was  all  due  to  your  kindness  of  heart,  Loraine ;  there 
is  no  help  for  it  now.  The  bells  of  Ulvesford  Mansion 
should  not  ring;  it  is  not  an  heir  of  the  Ulvesford’s,  whose 
birth  should  be  joyously  celebrated.” 

“  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Ulmont?” 

“  Certainly  not,  dear,”  and  he  passed  on  to  his  library. 

A  few  moments  later  Loraine  followed  him,  the  most 
curiously  beautiful  smile  playing  about  her  mouth. 

“I  have  something  here  to  show  you,”  she  said,  blushing 


“Ulmont  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  pushed  the  pile 
of  letters  before  him  into  a  drawer. 

“  Now  I  am  all  attention,  what  is  it?” 

For  answer  she  placed  a  little,  wee,  soft  bundle  she  car¬ 
ried,  directly  in  his  arms ;  the  next  instant  an  infant’s  pip¬ 
ing  wail  fell  upon  his  ear. 

Two  great,  dark  eyes  were  staring  wonderingly  up  into 


106  A  FATAL  WOOING. 

his  own,  and  a  little  waxen  hand  curled  confidingly  around 
his  forefinger. 

For  an  instant  every  drop  of  blood  left  Ulmont  Ulves- 
ford’s  handsome  face. 

What  was  there  about  that  tiny  creature  that  held  him 
spellbound,  causing  his  heart  to  thrill  as  it  had  never 
thrilled  before. 

The  magic  touch  of  the  little  waxen  hand  unmanned  him. 

The  little  head  rested  against  his  breast  with  a  soft,  low 
coo. 

The  great,  dark,  searching  eyes  never  left  his  face. 

Ah !  who  could  tell  what  that  tiny,  nursing  cherub  had 
discovered. 

Loraine’s  face  grew  white  as  death  as  she  watched  the 
infant  lying  so  contentedly  upon  her  husband’s  breast. 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  heartily  sorry  she  had  brought 
it  to  him. 

“Ah,  Loraine,”  he  sighed,  “I  would  give  half  my  for" 
tune,  and  think  it  well  spent,  if  this  little  one  was  the  heir 
of  Ulvesford  Manor !” 

The  white  lines  of  pain  grew  deeper  about  Loraine’s  face, 
as  with  a  forced  laugh,  she  replied,  quite  carelessly: 

“You  will  make  me  forget  my  errand,  Ulmont!” 

“  It  must  have  been  a  very  important  one  if  it  could  be 
so  easily  forgotten.” 

“  Is  it  not  important  the  baby  should  have  a  name?  that 
was  my  errand  here.  The  young  mother  held  out  her  hands 
to  me  and  said,  ‘call  him  what  you  will,’  I  thought  per¬ 
haps  you  could  help  me,  dear.” 

“I— how?” 

“  By  suggesting  something  you  think  appropriate.” 

“  There’s  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that. 

“I  have  already  thought  of  a  name  for  him,”  declared 
Loraine,  timidly.  “Somehow  I  thought — I  did  not  know 
whether  you  would  approve  of  it.” 

“What  is  the  neme  you  thought  of?”  he  asked,  curiously. 

Was  it  the  cruel  irony  of  fate  that  caused  Ulmont  Ul- 
vesford’s  guileless  young  wife  to  lay  her  hand  trustingly 
upon  her  husband’s  arm  as  she  answered,  with  a  smile  on 
her  lips. 

“Because  this  little  stranger  was  born  at  Ulvesford  Man¬ 
sion,  I  wish  him  called  Ulmont.” 

A  silence,  deep  as  death,  fell  between  them.” 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  infant  pleadingly  searched  Ulmont 
Ulvesford’s  face. 

His  beautiful  young  wife  knelt  at  his  feet,  the  firelight 
playing  on  her  golden  hair. 

Baby  c-ooed  softly,  lying  against  his  breast. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


10? 

The  very  chiming  of  the  Christmas  bells  seemed  echoing 
the  strain. 

“  Call  him  Ulmont !” 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Which  side  would  the  scales  fall. 

One  day,  two  weeks  later,  Loraine  and  Izetta  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  in  deep  conversation. 

“  Yours  is  indeed  a  strange  story,  Mrs.  Ross;  still,  after 
hearing  it,  I  again  repeat  my  former  offer.  You  say  you 
are  searching  for  a  situation,  why  not  accept  mine?” 

“It  is  very  different  now,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  since  I  have 
baby.  I  cannot  expect  to  procure  the  same  kind  of  a  sit¬ 
uation  as  before.” 

“  That  will  not  make  any  difference  with  me,  Mrs. 
Ross.” 

“You  are  very,  very  kind,”  murmured  Izetta,  impul¬ 
sively  kneeling  at  Loraine’s  feet,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
“You  have  been  so  good  to  me,”  she  sobbed,  “I  would 
give  my  very  life  for  yours,  if  I  could  ever  repay  you.” 

Loraine  smiled  down  into  the  dark,  beautiful  face,  little 
dreaming  of  the  heroic  will  lying  dormant  in  the  girl’s 
breast,  or  of  the  terrible  ordeal  which  would  try  her  be¬ 
yond  all  power  of  human  endurance. 

It  was  a  question  evenly  balanced,  only  heaven  could 
tell  on  which  side  the  scales  would  fall. 

“  How  strange  it  is,’  ’said  Loraine,  “  that  such  deep  shad¬ 
ows  have  fallen  over  your  life  while  mine  has  been  all 
sunshine.  I  can  understand,  poor  child,  how  well  you  have 
loved  your  husband,  but  I  cannot  see  how  your  love  would 
five  through  such  bitter  neglect.  Truly  the  ways  of  women 
are  wonderful.” 

“  You  would  not  have  wondered  had  you  seen  him,”  an¬ 
swered  Izetta ;  “  he  was  all  that  was  good  and  noble.  It 
is  so  hard  to  believe  those  lips  I  thought  so  true,  could  have 
uttered  falsehoods  while  they  smiled.” 

“  Still  you  say,”  pondered  Loraine,  “  he  never  once  told 
you  he  loved  you?” 

“  No,  he  never  spoke  of  love;  he  may  not  have  cared  for 
me  at  first,  but,  oh,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  I  truly  believe  he  was 
learning  to  love  me  before  that  cruel  letter  came  to  sepa¬ 
rate  us.” 

A  doubtful  expression  crossed  Loraine’s  face ;  she  knew 
very  little  of  the  world,  yet,  she  felt  that  no  husband,  who 
truly  loved,  could  desert  his  wife  in  that  dastardly 
fashion. 

“What  makes  you  think  that?”  she  asked. 


108 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


“ His  last  farewell,”  responded  Izetta.  “It  was  not  the 
parting  of  an  indifferent  husband,  madam*  ‘  My  darling,’ 
he  said,  ‘  something  has  happened  which  will  necessarily 
part  us  for  a  few  days,  but  it  will  be  for  only  a  few  days 
at  most,  then  I  shall  return  for  my  wife.’  He  placed  all 
the  money  he  had  about  him  in  my  hands,  together  with 
the  address  of  the  nurse.  He  never  knew  I  was  left  des¬ 
titute,  he  was  not  so  hard  as  that.” 

“  But  the  address,”  questioned  Loraine,  “  even  had  you 
not  lost  it,  it  was  useless ;  no  one  in  Silvernook  knew  of 
him,  you  say.” 

“  That  was  the  only  part  of  it  I  could  not  understand, 
madam.  I  advertised  for  months  in  the  city  papers  for 
Aid  eric,  or  anyone  who  knew  his  whereabouts ;  it  was  all 
useless.  Since  that  fatal  morning  I  have  never  looked 
upon  his  face.” 

s  Loraine  could  not  imagine  the  depths  of  such  cruelty. 

“I  ought  to  be  very  happy,  Mrs.  Ross;  I  have  never 
known  one  wish  unfulfilled.  I  never  had  a  serious  thought 
in  life  until  I  met  my  husband;  then  I  said  to  myself,  un¬ 
less  I  gain  the  love  of  this  man,  life  will  hold  no  pleasure 
for  me ;  he  was  more  to  me  than  all  the  world,  and  when  I 
married  him  my  happiness  was  complete.  I  would  as  soon 
think  of  living  without  the  sunshine,  as  without  my  hus¬ 
band’s  love,”  and  the  proud,  petted  beauty  trembled  as  she 
spoke. 

Izetta  sighed,  as  she  replied: 

‘  ‘  My  husband’s  love  was  wholly  apart  from  my  life ;  I 
had  no  share  in  it ;  now  I  shall  live  only  for  my  boy  alone. 
I  loved  Aid  eric  so  fondly,  such  a  love  as  mine  ends  only  in 
death.” 

There  was  such  pathos  in  her  voice  that  Loraine  felt 
vaguely  uneasy ;  she  did  not  like  somber  thoughts. 

She  was  so  irresistibly  drawn  toward  Izetta,  that  she  de¬ 
termined  not  to  part  with  her. 

“You  have  not  seen  my  husband,  Mrs.  Ross;  he  was 
called  suddenly  away  the  morning  after  Christmas.  I  ex¬ 
pect  him  home  some  time  to-day.” 

“  I  shall  tell  him  the  sad  story  of  this  poor  creature,  then 
when  he  sees  her,  he  will  think  more  kindly  of  her,”  she 
thought. 

Loraine  did  not  quite  like  the  idea  of  having  the  child 
there,  and  as  soon  as  practicable  she  believed  Izetta  could 
be  induced  to  part  with  it;  she  believed,  too,  that  having  it 
taken  charge  of  elsewhere  would  be  best  for  the  child. 

She  had  yet  to  learn  the  power  of  mother-love ;  she  was 
sorry  she  had  named  this  stranger’s  child  after  her  hus¬ 
band. 

Loraine  was  wondering  how  she  should  find  words  to  tell 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  109 

her  she  must  part  from  her  child,  as  Izetta  thanked  her  so 
gratefully  for  her  goodness.  Poor  Izetta,  how  could  she 
think  that  this  fair,  proud  woman  envied  her  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  her  little  child. 

Deep  down  in  Izetta’s  heart  she  had  a  hope  that  someday 
she  would  be  united  to  Alderic  through  his  child,  her  faith 
was  so  steadfast. 

“We  must  wait  very  patiently,  you  and  I,  baby,”  she 
said,  “some  day  we  shall  meet  Alderic,”  her  heart  gave 
such  a  great  throb  of  joy  at  the  thought,  it  almost  took  her 
breath  away. 

Loraine  had  decided  to  say  nothing  of  the  plans  she  had 
concluded  for  baby’s  future  until  she  conferred  with  Ul- 
mont. 

Quite  as  Loraine  had  expected,  he  was  amazed ;  he  heard 
his  haughty  wife,  whom  few  could  please,  had  decided  to 
keep  the  benighted  wanderer,  who  had  fled  there  for  shel¬ 
ter  beneath  their  roof. 

A  feeling  of  pity  for  the  deserted  young  wife,  whom  he 
determined  not  to  like,  stole  over  him,  as  his  golden-haired 
Loraine  repeated  her  sad  story. 

“  It  seems  almost  incredible.”  he  said,  “that  such  wrongs 
can  go  unpunished.  I  will  see  this  young  person  to  morrow  ; 
then  I  can  better  judge  whetner  she  is  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning ;  whether  or  no  she  is  a  fit  companion  for  you, 
my  wife. 

He  was  determined  she  should  not  be  urged  to  remain, 
until  after  he  had  seen  her. 

There  was  but  one  incentive  which  led  him  to  think 
favorably  of  the  affair,  which  was  a  keen  desire  to  keep 
the  child  near  him. 

He  meant  to  never  lose  sight  of  the  child  born  at  Ulves- 
ford  Mansion;  if  he  never  had  an  heir  of  his  own,  per¬ 
haps — who  could  tell  what  he  would  do  for  the  little  fel¬ 
low  in  the  future ! 

He  told  himself  he  would  think  as  well  of  the  mother 
as  he  could — for  the  child’s  sake. 

The  next  morning  Izetta  was  summoned  to  the  library. 
Loraine  had  sent  word  that  her  husband  wished  to  speak 
with  her. 

Izetta  was  holding  baby  when  the  maid  delivered  her 
message. 

“Mr.  Ulvesford  wishes  to  see  me?”  she  asked,  in  dis¬ 
may. 

“  He  says  you  are  to  comeat  the  earliest  moment,  please; 
he’s  a  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  and  not  in  a  pleas¬ 
ant  mood,  either.  He’s  a  nice  gentleman,  but  he  does  get 
most  awfui  cross  when  he  has  those  thinking  spells,  as 
'We  call  ’em.  Why,  them  times  you  could  go  straight  past 
him  a  dozen  times  a  minute  and  he  would  look  straight 


110 


A  FATAL  WOOING 


over  your  head  without  seeing  you.  I’ve  seen  him  even 
turn  his  head  away  from  his  wife,  and  say:  ‘  Don’t  trouble 
me  now,  Loraine;  go  away,  I’m  thinking.’  He’s  always 
been  thinking,  no  one  but  himself  knows  what  about.  If 
we  have  anything  particular  to  say  to  Mr.  Ulvesford,  we 
always  wait  till  he’s  through  with  his  spell  o’  thinking.” 

“Ah,  baby,”  whispered  Izetta,  when  alone,  “perhaps 
Mr.  Ulvesford  regrets  his  wife  has  offered  you  and  me  a 
shelter.” 

Unconsciously  her  hand  closed  over  the  same  little 
waxen  fingers  that  had  curled  so  confidingly  in  Ulmont’s 
clasp ;  slowly  she  turned  and  descended  the  grand  stair¬ 
way. 

“Come  in,  Mrs.  Ross,”  called  Loraine,  as  she  passed  her 
door. 

Loraine’s  boudoir  was  a  fitting  casket  for  the  jewel  it 
held ;  the  room  was  a  mass  of  softened  bloom  and  per¬ 
fume  with  a  great  profusion  of  tall,  white  lilies,  that  held 
up  their  white  cups  to  the  glimmering  sunlight. 

Izetta  never  forgot  Loraine  as  she  stood  there  on  that 
winter  morning;  the  memory  lingered  with  her,  half 
pleasure,  half  pain,  all  the  years  of  her  after  life. 

She  wore  a  robe  of  spotless  white;  as  she  bent  her 
beautiful  head  over  the  lilies,  one  of  her  golden  curls 
twined  around  the  lily’s  stem,  and  mingled  with  its  golden 
calyx. 

For  an  instant  the  blood  receded  from  Izetta’s  face ;  this 
picture  which  Loraine  formed  was  certainly  no  new  one  to 
her;  where  had  she  seen  one  like  it? 

Quickly  her  mind  drifted  back  to  that  morning  on  the 
beach,  and  to  the  portrait  her  husband  had  shown  her ;  his 
work,  he  had  said. 

“How  strange  it  is.”  she  thought,  “I  should  see  just 
such  a  picture  in  real  life  as  crossed  his  brain  in  fancy.” 

She  remembered  the  dull  pain  in  her  heart  when  Alderic 
had  carelessly  admitted  he  liked  fair  women  best. 

Loraine  never  knew  why  a  sudden  faintness  seized  Mrs. 
Ross;  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  had  she  not 
steadied  herself  against  the  marble  mantel. 

“  You  are  nervous  and  agitated,  Mrs.  Ross,”  said 
Loraine  ;  “  I  trust  it  is  not  due  to  this  interview  with  Mr. 
Ulvesford;  he  has  heard  your  story  and  feels  very  kindly 
disposed  toward  you.” 

A  hesitating  rap  at  the  door  interrupted  her. 

“  Well,  Annette,  what  is  it?”  asked  Loraine. 

“If  you  please,  ma’am,”  answered  the  maid ;  “the  artist 
has  finished  Mr.  Ulvesford’s  portrait  and  sent  it  home;  do 
you  wish  it  brought  up  to  you.” 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 


111 


“By  ail  maans,”  answered  Loraine;  “let  it  be  brought 
Up  here  at  once.” 

“Now,  Mrs.  Ross,”  she  said,  “you  shall  see  my  hus¬ 
band’s  portrait  and  judge  for  yourself ;  he  is  just  the  re¬ 
verse  of  one  to  inspire  fear,  even  in  the  heart  of  the  most 
timid.  I  have  told  him  so  much  of  you,  he  has  a  desire  to 
have  his  curiosity  gratified.” 

There  was  a  slight  shuffling  of  feet  without,  and  the  next 
moment  a  servant  entered  bearing  the  portrait  of  Ulmont 
Ulvesford. 

“Ah!  it  is  true  to  the  very  life,”  exclaimed  Loraine,  de¬ 
lightedly. 

Then  she  turned  to  Izetta,  proudly  as  a  young  queen 
might  have  done,  as  she  said : 

“  Look,  Mrs.  Ross,  this  is  my  husband!” 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FACE  TO  FACE. 

The  bright  sunshine  fell  full  upon  the  pictured  face. 

“Look,  Mrs.  Ross!”  Loraine  repeated,  proudly;  “this  is 
my  husband.” 

Izetta  stepped  forward ;  for  a  single  instant  only  her 
dark  eyes  rested  on  the  picture ;  then,  with  a  low,  piercing 
cry,  she  sank  down  beside  it  in  a  dead  swoon. 

“  I  wonder  what  could  have  startled  her  so?”  pondered 
Loraine. 

The  white  lips  opened  with  a  faint  moan : 

“  Alderic — Alder  ic !” 

“Poor  child !”  thought  Loraine,  “she  must  have  been 
comparing  her  own  cruel  lot  with  mine.” 

Slowly  the  dark  eyes  opened. 

“I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,”  she  said,  while 
in  her  heart  rose  one  great  cry;  “so  like,  ah!  so  like!” 

“  If  my  husband’s  portrait  had  represented  a  stern,  for¬ 
bidding  face,  I  should  s^y  it  was  that  which  caused  you  to 
faint.” 

Izetta  shuddered. 

“  May  I  look  at  the  portrait  again?”  she  asked. 

Loraine  was  only  too  pleased. 

“  Yes,”  she  answered,  leading  the  way  to  an  inner  apart¬ 
ment;  “I  have  had  it  hung  where  the  best  light  will  be 
thrown  upon  it.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  parted  the  amber  satin  curtains,  and 
Izetta  was  face  to  face  with  the  portrait  of  Ulmont  Ulves¬ 
ford. 

She  did  not  cry  out  or  utter  a  moan,  her1*  brain  whirled 
and  her  breath  seemed  to  come  and  go  in  short,  convul¬ 
sive  gasps.  At  the  first  glance  the  fatal  resemblance  to 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


Alderic  had  almost  overpowered  her.  As  she  looked 
again  she  saw  the  portrait  of  a  fair-haired  young  man, 
while  Alderic’s  was  a  dark,  glossy  brown.  She  remem¬ 
bered  Alderic’s  mouth,  proud  and  haughty;  this  one  was 
-  almost  wholly  concealed  by  the  long,  drooping  mustache. 
The  proud,  uplifted  head,  and  the  dark-blue,  searching  eyes 
alone  reminded  her  forcibly  of  Alderic. 

“  It  is  simply  a  coincidence,”  she  told  herself,  “  nothing 
more.” 

She  had  not  thought  it  possible  for  anyone  in  the  wide, 
wide  world  to  look  like  Alderic.  She  was  startled  at  the 
tumultuous  throbbing  of  her  own  heart.  The  sudden  warb¬ 
ling  of  a  yellow  canary,  hanging  in  a  gilded  cage  above  her 
head  aroused  her  from  her  deep  reverie. 

“  I  am  pleased  that  you  like  my  husband,  Mrs,  Ross.” 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  Izettathat  Mrs.  Ulvesford  might 
not  be  pleased  with  the  intense  scrutiny  and  rapt  gaze 
she  had  bestowed  on  the  portrait,  but  she  could  not  turn 
away ;  the  dark-blue  eyes  held  an  unacoountable  fascina¬ 
tion  for  her,  the  same  questioning  expression  in  their 
depths  she  had  often  read  in  Alderic’s ;  then  the  heavy, 
silken  folds  of  the  curtain  fell  between  Izetta  and  the  por¬ 
trait,  and  she  felt  as  if  the  darkness  of  night  had  slowly 
settled  around  her. 

The  words  of  Loraine  still  sounded  in  her  ear.  She  could 
not  tell  why  the  bitterness  of  death  seemed  to  fall  upon 
her,  as  she  gazed  upon  that  pictured  face  and  heard  the 
words : 

“  Look,  Mrs.  Ross,  this  is  my  husband !” 

“Mr.  Ulvesford  awaits  Mrs.  Ross  in  the  library,”  said 
the  maid,  again  making  her  appearance. 

“Tell  him  she  is  with  me,  in  the  morning-room,  I  will 
send  her  down  directly.  There  need  be  no  hurry,”  she  said, 
turning  to  Izetta ;  “I  want  you  to  regain  some  of  your 
lost  color  before  you  go  down.  Anyone  would  imagine 
you  had  seen  a  ghost.” 

Ah !  she  little  knew  the  young  girl  had  stood  that  morn¬ 
ing  amid  the  shattered  ruins  of  her  dead  hopes,  face  to  face 
with  her  past. 

Izetta  walked  with  a  firm  step  toward  the  library. 

“Why  should  I  shrink  and  cower?”  she  asked  herself. 
“I  have  done  no  wrong — I  must  be  brave  for  baby’s 
sake !” 

The  door  was  standing  ajar,  she  knocked  timidly,  once, 
twice,  but  there  was  no  response;  at  the  third  and  little 
louder  rap,  Zack,  th  coachman,  answered  the  summons. 

“  If  you  please,  you  are  to  take  a  seat,  master  was  called 
away  for  a  moment,  he  will  return  in  a  very  few  mo¬ 
ments,”  he  said. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


118 


Then  Zack  withdrew  from  the  room  and  Izetta  was  left 
to  the  contemplation  of  her  own  thoughts. 

A  note-book,  a  glove,  and  a  riding- whip  lay  on  the  desk 
before  her.  A  huge  mastiff  lay  on  the  hearth-rug  watch¬ 
ing  her  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  The  sound  of  her 
own  name  falling  upon  her  ears  from  the  adjacent  room 
chained  her  attention. 

“Are  you  not  afraid  your  daughter  will  rue  it,  Mrs. 
Lorrimer,  allowing  this  stranger  to  remain  beneath  her 
roof?”  said  a  strange  voice. 

“I  have  been  seriously  expostulating  with  Lorain e  on 
this  very  point ;  I  assure  you  I  have  felt  a  great  depression 
ever  since  that  woman,  with  the  beautiful,  foreign  face,  en¬ 
tered  this  house;  then  there  is  the  child,  I  am  urging 

strongly  that  he  shall  be - ”  at  the  mention  of  the  child 

Izetta  strove  to  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  the  voice 
had  sunk  to  a  low,  inaudible  whisper. 

“I  heartily  agree  with  you,”  responded  the  stranger, 
“only  yesterday  I  told  your  daughter:  ‘Take  care,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  this  child  does  not  prove  a  thorn  in 
your  path  of  roses !’  Is  the  child  pretty?” 

“  Decidedly  so,”  answered  Mrs.  Lorrimer;  “yet  there 
is  something  about  that  child  that  puzzles  me.  I  have  told 
Loraine  so,  but  she  only  laughs,  and  replies :  ‘How  fanci¬ 
ful  you  are,  mother.’  Still,  I  repeat  it,  I  do  not  like  the 
child.” 

“What  does  Mr.  Ulvesford  think  of  the  plan  you  pro¬ 
pose?” 

“  He  has  not  heard  of  it  yet,  he  will  certainly  object.  I 
assure  you  he  is  quite  interested  in  that  child.” 

“That  is  averv  startling  idea,”  exclaimed  the  visitor; 
“  it  reminds  me  or  the  serious  trouble  a  friend  of  mine  once 
experienced.  Her  husband  and  she,  although  dearly  lov¬ 
ing  children,  were  childless,  that  boon  was  denied  them. 
She  took  a  neighbor’s  child  into  her  home.  Husband  and 
wife  never  seemed  the  same  to  each  other  after  that ;  im¬ 
perceptible  at  first,  the  husband  turned  from  his  wife  to 
that  child.  When  at  last  an  heir  of  their  own  was  born,  it 
was  too  late ;  no  power  on  earth  could  alienate  the  husband’s 
affections  which  were  lavished  upon  the  stranger.  The 
young  wife  lived  to  see  her  own  child  turned  from  its  own 
father’s  door,  its  place  usurped  by  a  stranger’s  child.” 

“Your  story  quite  frightens  me,”  replied  Mrs.  Lorrimer; 
“if  I  anticipated  such  a  denouement  in  this  case,  do  you 
know  what  I  should  be  tempted  to  do?” 

In  vain  Izetta  strove  to  catch  the  next  few  words. 

“  Heaven  help  me!”  she  cried,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro, 

‘surely  they  do  not  wish  to  separate  baby  and  me!” 

She  could  hear  the  distant  rumbling  of  the  storms  which 


114 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


were  gathering  over  her  future.  One  thought  only  forced 
itself  upon  her — they  did  not  want  her  little  child. 

“No!”  she  cried,  starting  with  new  energy  to  her  feet; 
“my  darling,  you  are  all  I  have  in  this  wide,  wide  world. 
No  one  shall  take  you  from  me.  If  they  turn  us  from  their 
door  we  shall  still  have  each  other;  and  if  we  find  the  world 
too  cold,  baby,  you  and  I  can  die  together.” 

She  remembered  how  the  dark  waters  looked  tipped  by 
the  silvery  light  of  the  stars ;  those  waters  which  gently 
laved  the  coral  bed  which  entombed  her  grandfather;  still, 
she  tried  hard  to  put  these  dark  thoughts  away — for  baby’s 
sake. 

Then  she  quite  laughed  aloud ;  she  had  certainly  misun¬ 
derstood  them.  How  could  anyone  mean  to  separate  her 
from  her  little  child? 

She  remembered  they  had  said  Mr.  Ulvesford  was  pleased 
with  baby ;  they  said  of  him,  too,  that  he  was  kind  of  heart. 

She  would  tell  him  a  home  beneath  that  roof  would  be 
Heaven  to  her ;  but  she  would  kneel  at  his  feet,  and  tell 
him  she  must  keep  her  little  son  with  her.  Better  home¬ 
less,  penniless,  out  in  the  perils  of  the  storm  again,  than 
parted  from  her  little  child. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  clear,  ringing  step  was  heard 
on  the  stair ;  the  shadow  of  a  tall,  dark  form  fell  between 
Izetta  and  the  sunlight,  a  strong,  white  hand  pushed  back 
the  partially  opened  door,  and  a  pair  of  dark -blue  eyes 
flashed  pleasantly  about  the  room,  observing  at  once  the 
slight  figure  by  the  fireside,  and  a  voice,  whose  cadence 
fell  upon  her  ear  like  the  memory  of  some  forgotten  dream, 
said  courteously : 

“Mrs.  Ross,  I  believe?” 

A  deep  silence  fell  between  them. 

At  last  Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  Izetta  had  met — face  to 
face! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  PLOT  DEEPENS. 

In  the  library  at  Hampton  Place  quite  another  scene  was 
being  enacted. 

It  was  early  morning,  yet  the  lights  remained  as  they  had 
been  lit  the  previous  evening.  The  fire  was  burning  low 
and  fitfully  in  the  grate.  There  was  a  haggard  expression 
on  the  face  of  Heath  Hampton  in  the  flickering  firelight. 
He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep  thought. 

No  word  had  broken  the  deep  silence  for  an  hour  or 
more. 

JJe  clinched  the  letters  he  held  in  his  hand,  as  if  they 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  115 

were  sensible  of  the  pain  he  would  inflict  upon  the  writers 
if  he  could. 

“Read  these  letters  again,  Vatal,”  he  commanded;  “I 
say  there  must  be  some  loop-hole.” 

Slowly  the  dwarf  picked  up  the  letters  that  had  been 
tossed  into  his  lap,  smoothing  them  out  carefully  with  his 
hand.  The  first  was  marked  “Official,”  post-marked 
“Switzerland,”  and  read  as  follows: 

“  My  Dear  Hampton: — As  per  agreement,  I  ascertained, 
upon  close  investigation,  owing  to  the  extraordinary  com¬ 
plications  which  surround  this  uncommon  case,  that  a  war¬ 
rant  for  the  extradition  papers,  for  the  removal  of  Ulmont 
Ulvesford  back  to  Switzerland  on  the  charge  of  murder  in 
the  first  degree,  could  be  obtained  if  the  facts  in  the  case 
were  clearly  proven,  as  stated. 

“True,  the  surgeon  who  officiated  is  dead;  and  the  oppo¬ 
site  parties  left  the  ground  before  the  extent  of  the  injury 
had  been  declared. 

“  My  testimony  was  corroborated  by  the  finding  of  some 
poor  fellow’s  mangled  remains  over  the  cliff,  utterly  un¬ 
recognizable. 

“  Everyone  at  the  inn  admits  the  knowledge  of  a  dis¬ 
turbance.  Upon  the  stand,  Wylmer  Lee  admitted  that  the 
duel  had  taken  place  on  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice, 
though  he  insisted  that  death  had  not  taken  place  at  the 
time  he  departed  in  company  with  Ulvesford. 

“Of  course,  old  fellow,  I  say  now,  as  I  said  then,  you 
were  foolish  in  returning  to  America.  You  should  have 
remained  abroad. 

“  I  am  lost  in  wonder  when  I  imagine  you  back  in  a  lo¬ 
cality  where  you  are  so  well  known;  if  you  were  once  rec¬ 
ognized,  all  our  work  here  would  be  in  vain. 

“The  officers  in  charge  of  the  necessary  papers  sailed  on 
the  steamer  White  Cresson.  I  hope  to  hear  in  your  reply 
of  the  successful  issue  of  our  enterprise. 

“  Yours  very  truly, 

“De  Risnar.” 

With  a  grating,  sardonic  laugh,  Hampton  took  the  let¬ 
ters  from  Vatal’s  hand,  thrusting  them  into  the  breast 
pocket  of  his  coat. 

s  “  Money,”  he  said,  “  I  never  knew  a  day’s  peace  in  my 
life ;  someone  is  always  hounding  me  down  for  money.  I 
staked  my  all  on  winning  the  heiress  of  Lorrimer  Hall ; 
even  my  mother’s  companion,  like  a  frightened  bird,  took 
wings  and  flew  away  while  under  my  very  grasp.” 

Vatal  was  just  on  the  point  of  telling  the  great  secret  he 
had  but  yesterday  unearthed. 

4#  he  was  driving  slowly  past  Ulvesford  Manor,  lie  had 


116 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


seen  a  white,  terrified  face  that  had  instantly  vanished 
from  the  window,  as  her  gaze  met  that  of  the  dwarf. 

“No,”  he  told  himself,  “the  secret  will  keep;  it  will  bo 
worth  money  to  me  in  the  future;  it  was  not  worth  while 
to  divulge  it  just  now;  Hampton  has  no  money  to  pay 
for  it.” 

“What  are  you  mumbling  about;  why  don’t  you  speak 
out,  man?”  cried  Hampton,  angrily,  stopping  short  in  hi* 
walk. 

“Because  there’s  no  cause  for  my  saying  anything,” 
growled  the  dwarf,  snapping  his  white  teeth  viciously  to¬ 
gether,  his  small,  ferret-like  eyes  flashing  fire. 

For  a  moment  Heath  Hampton  regarded  the  creature  be¬ 
fore  him  with  a  keen,  critical,  searching  gaze. 

“  There’s  no  use  in  our  quarreling  over  trifles,  Vatal,”  he 
said,  with  a  forced,  grating  laugh;  “honest  men  get  their 
just  dues,  when  rogues  fall  out.” 

He  did  not  notice  the  dull  gleam  in  the  dwarf’s  eye,  as 
he  turned  impatiently  on  his  heel,  resuming  his  quick  tread 
up  and  down  the  room. 

‘  ‘  All  would  have  gone  well  with  me  if  I  had  captured 
the  heiress.”  he  muttered,  excitedly,  “  all  this  would  never 
have  happened,  but  for  that  cursed  Ulvesford !” 

He  clinched  his  nails  deep  into  the  palms  of  his  hand, 
as  the  imprecation  burst  from  his  lips.  The  loss  of  the 
golden  prize  had  been  a  bitter  blow  to  him. 

“  It  is  evident  that  I  must  have  money,”  he  muttered, 

“  no  matter  where  I  get  it,  or  how.” 

His  brow  darkened  vindictively. 

“What’s  the  time,  Vatal?” 

There  was  no  response,  and,  turning  round,  he  found  the 
dwarf  had  silently  left  the  room. 

“Curse  that  fool!”  he  muttered,  “he  must  be  watched 
like  a  sleuth-hound.  If  he  was  only  out  of  the  way  I  could 
breathe  freer.  He  knows  too  much — altogether  too  much ; 
we  have  worked  in  the  harness  together  too  long;  he  must  , 
be  effectually  swept  from  my  path !” 

A  deep,  diabolical  plot  was  revolving  in  Heath  Hamp¬ 
ton’s  brain,  a  fatal  plot  which  led  to  the  sorriest  of  crimes. 

“I  have  not  lost  all  my  cunning  yet,”  lie  said  to  him¬ 
self.  “Ha!  did  not  Robert  Bruce,  of  Scotland,  fail  a  score 
of  times  ere  he  reached  his  grand  success?” 

Hampton  did  not  stop  to  reason  that  that  cause  had 
been  an  honest  one.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  dar¬ 
ing  bravery  of  King  Richard  III. 

‘  ‘  What  are  my  few  petty  deeds,  ”  he  cried,  1  ‘  to  the  many 
daring  deeds  of  Richard  before  he  gained  the  crown? 
Yatal  has  been  a  willing  tool,  but  his  days  of  usefulness 


*4 


A  FATAL  WOOING,  ITt 

Are  over;  his  knowledge  would  make  him  a  dangerous 
foe.” 

Suddenly  attracted  by  a  slight  rustle  in  the  room,  he 
raised  his  eyes. 

“  Mother,”  he  said,  harshly,  fixing  his  keen,  penetrating 
eyes  sharply  upon  her,  as  if  lie  would  read  her  very 
thoughts,  “tell me  how  long  you  have  been  here.” 

“  I  have  just  entered,”  she  replied.  “  What  is  the  mean¬ 
ing,  Heath,  of  the  brightly  burning  gas-light  in  the  broad 
glare  of  day.  Surely  you  have  not  been  up  all  night,  have 
you,  my  son?” 

She  laid  her  hand  wistfully  on  her  son’s  arm.  He  shook 
off  her  light  touch  impatiently. 

“  Don’t  annoy  me  with  your  impor tunings,”  he  said,  un¬ 
graciously. 

“  There  was  a  time,  Heath,”  she  said,  “  when  you  would 
listen  to  your  mother’s  counsel ;  depend  upon  it,  without  it, 
you  will  rush  headlong  to  your  ruin.” 

He  answered  her  with  a  bitter,  taunting  laugh. 

“You  might  as  well  talk  of  the  horrors  of  hanging  to 
the  poor  wretch  who  stands  at  the  gallows  with  the  rope 
about  his  neck,  Bah!  lamas  near,  ruined  now  as  1  can 
be.” 

“  It  is  all  your  own  fault,  Heath,  you  should  have - ” 

“Never  throw  up  the  past,  mother,  what  good  can  that 
do?” 

“The  rocks  of  the  past  warn  us  of  the  future.” 

“  It’s  rather  late  in  the  day  to  commence  moralizing  now, 
mother ;  you  should  have  practiced  what  you  preach  years 
ago.  I’m  in  a  series  of  scrapes ;  there’s  only  one  way  you 
can  help  me  out.” 

For  a  moment  this  mother  and  son  stood  facing  each 
other. 

“If  it  is  the  want  of  money  again,  Heath,”  she  said 
with  the  slow,  cold  tones  peculiar  to  her,  “  we  will  not  dis¬ 
cuss  the  subject ;  let  it  drop.  I  have  humored  your  whims 
and  spent  a  fortune  upon  you.  Your  waywardness  has 
Been  the  cause  of  my  deepest  grief.  I  have  raised  you 
like  a  gentleman,  while  the  other - ” 

Heath  Hampton  raised  his  hand  warningly. 

“Have  a  care,  mother,”  he  cried,  “walls  have  ears;  trust 
a  woman  for  never  yet  keeping  a  secret.” 

His  face  was  pale,  and  livid  lines  were  drawn  about  his 
^jnouth. 

“See  how  you  have  repaid  me,”  cried  his  mother,  in 
bitter  anger,  forgetting  her  caution,  “a  gambler  and  a 
roue.” 

“It’s  a  wonder  you  do  not  add  murderer  and  thief  in  the 


118 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


true  bill,”  he  said,  sneeringly,  taking  a  cigar  from  hid 
pocket  and  calmly  lighting  it. 

“  The  road  you  are  on  leads  to  it,”  she  retorted. 

How  little  sne  knew  he  stood  upon  the  brink  of  it . 

“  You  could  help  me,  mother,  if  you  would,”  he  answer¬ 
ed;  “and  I  would  leave  the  country.” 

“  Never  again.”  she  replied,  sternly.  “  You  have  had  it 
in  your  power  to  do  well;  you  have  always  let  your 
chances  slip.  See  the  terrible  sacrifice  I  made  for  your 
sake.  If  I  ever  repented - ” 

Heath  Hampton  leaped  to  his  feet,  crying  hoarsely  : 

“  You  dare  not  repent  after  all  these  long  years;  think 
how  the  world  would  rise  at  such  heartlessness  and  cruelty. 
You  think  I,  your  son,  could  be  faultless.  Ask  the  raven 
why  he  is  not  a  canary,  and  he  will  tell  you :  ‘  By  right  of 
ancestry  I’  ” 

She  held  up  her  hands  with  a  low  cry. 

“  Is  it  for  this,”  she  groaned,  “  after  all  these  long  years 
— you,  for  whom  I  have  toiled  and  schemed,  taunt  me 
with  my  crime.  I  reared  you  a  gentleman ;  see  how  little 
it  avails  you.  You  might  have  retrieved  your  fortune  with 
the  Lorrimer  money,  but  you  let  it  slip,  and  wasted  your 
time  abroad ;  then,  worst  of  all,  you  came  home  to  me  a 
cripple,”  she  cried,  pointing  to  the  scarred  hand,  so  hid¬ 
eously  seamed.  ‘  ‘  I  believe  it  is  vengeance.  One  cripple 
in  the  house  was  enough.  And  you  mysteriously  creep 
home  under  cover  of  the  night,  shunning  the  gaze  of  men 
like  a  felon.  What  does  all  this  mean?  Answer  me,  Heath 
Hampton.  I  have  the  right — I  demand  to  know  this  mys¬ 
tery  you  would  keep  from  me,  here  and  now !” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  ROBBERY  PLANNED. 

“  I  may  have  reasons  for  my  actions,  which  I  do  not 
choose  to  disclose,”  responded  Hampton.  “You  will  be 
wise  not  to  interfere  in  my  affairs.  Money  is  the  only 
thing  that  will  help  me;  advice  is  a  cheap  commodity.” 

“  You  shall  never  have  another  cent  until  I  die,”  she  re¬ 
torted,  sternly,  her  white,  thin,  jeweled  hands  clasped 
nervously  together.  ‘  ‘  I  have  borne  patiently  with  you 
for  years,  and  you  would  beggar  me  in  my  old  age,  if  per¬ 
mitted.” 

Although  the  mother  knew  but  too  well  his  many  follies, 
she  loved  this  handsome,  daring,  reckless  son  as  she  had 
never  loved  anything  in  her  solitary  life.  What  had  she 
not  undergone  for  his  sake? 

“Listen,  mother,”  he  cried ;  “  I  appeal  to  you  for  the  last 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  X19 

time ;  advance  me  a  thousand  dollars,  and  I  will  never  ask 
you  for  another  cent !” 

The  rare  diamonds  on  her  breast  gleamed  strangely  in 
the  pallid  morning  light. 

Her  face  was  rigid  as  the  marble  Flora  against  which 
she  leaned. 

“  No,”  she  said,  “not  another  cent — mark  me,  not  one 
cent.” 

“ So  be  it,”  he  answered,  gloomily;  “ but  I  want  you  to 
always  remember,  whatever  happens,  I  was  not  thoroughly 
wicked ;  there  was  a  time,  and  not  long  ago,  when  I  might 
have  been  redeemed  by  love.” 

“  I  am  certainly  at  a  loss  to  understand  you.  What  do 
you  mean?” 

“I  am  dealing  in  plain  facts;  first,  I  followed  your  in¬ 
structions  by  offering  myself  to  the  haughty  heiress  of 
Lorrimer  Hall,  only  to  be  refused  for  my  pains.  I  had 
never  met  any  woman  then  whom  I  thought  I  could  love 
for  herself.”  " 

Mrs.  Hampton’s  cold,  glittering  eyes  never  once  left  her 
son’s  white  face  as  he  continued : 

“  I  cursed  the  fate  that  swept  that  grand  estate  from  my 
grasp ;  wealth  was  my  idol :  suddenly  my  heart  awoke  to 
the  subtle  influence  of  a  woman’s  face — do  not  start, 
mother,  it  is  true — yet  you  kept  us  asunder,  yes,  you ;  had 
you  permitted  me  to  woo  and  win  your  late  companion 
for  my  wife,  I  might  have  been  a  different  man  to-day.  I 
loved  her  passionately,  madly,  yet  you  kept  us  asunder, 
poisoned  her  against  me ;  now,  she  has  fled  from  me,  and 
with  her  all  hopes  of  my  ever  leading  a  better  life.” 

He  finished  his  sentence  with  a  hard,  bitter,  mocking 
laugh,  that  grated  harshly  on  his  listener’s  ear. 

“  Ah,  this  is  the  reason,  then,  Miss  Rienzi  fled  from  us  so 
unceremoniously,”  she  said,  slowly. 

She  had  been  so  vigilant  lest  Izetta  should  meet  her  son, 
yet  they  had  met ;  she  wondered  where  and  when. 

With  a  quick  motion  she  advanced  to  where  her  son  sat, 
placing  her  hand  on  his  dark  hair  as  she  said : 

“  Heath,  my  boy,  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  than  wed¬ 
ded  to  a  beautiful  pauper.  In  me  you  see  a  shattered  life, 
still  I  know  the  advantages  of  money ;  while  you  throw 
yourself  headlong  at  the  shrine  of  a  pretty  face ;  from  this 
time  on  I  have  done  with  you.  It’s  but  Dead  Sea  fruit, 
after  all,”  she  said,  slowly,  a  spasm  of  pain  crossing  her 
dark  face. 

Turning  hastily,  she  left  the  room,  her  heavy,  black  silk 
robes  trailing  after  her  on  the  thick  carpet. 

She  little  realized  under  what  circumstances  she  would 
again  look  upon  the  desperate,  reckless  face  of  her  son* 


120 


a  Fatal  Wooim. 


Late  that  afternoon  she  sent  for  Vatal.  It  had  been 
years  since  the  dwarf  had  received  such  a  summons. 

“  What  can  she  want  of  me?”  he  muttered,  as  he  made 
his  appearance  at  her  door. 

“  Come  in,  Vatal,”  she  said. 

Her  voice  had  a  weary  sound  in  it. 

Although  it  was  scarcely  dusk,  the  curtains  were  closely 
drawn,  and  the  red  firelight,  which  leaped  and  spluttered 
in  the  burnished  grate,  threw  grotesque  shadows  against 
the  walls  and  on  the  jewels  that  quivered  on  Mrs.  Hamp¬ 
ton’s  breast,  as  she  sat  in  her  low  rocker  by  the  hearth. 

The  dwarf  noticed  that  she  sat  with  her  face  partially 
turned  from  him.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  waste  time  in 
unnecessary  words. 

“Sit  down,  Vatal.” 

On  this  occasion  she  came  to  the  subject  uppermost  in 
her  mind  at  once. 

“  Can  you  tell  me,  Vatal,  where  and  when  my  son  first 
met  Miss  Eienzi,  the  young  girl  who  so  mysteriously  dis¬ 
appeared  from  here  lately?” 

“  On  the  day  she  first  came  here,  madam.” 

“  You  are  in  the  habit  of  driving  my  son  about  consider¬ 
ably,  are  you  not?” 

“  I  was,  madam,  before  he  went  abroad ;  very  little  since 
his  return.” 

“  Try  to  remember  if  he  ever  met  Miss  Eienzi  before  she 
came  here.” 

“  Not  to  my  knowledge;  they  appeared  to  meet  that  day 
as  perfect  strangers.” 

“  Do  you  know  if  they  have  met  since. 

“No,  madam;  I  am  sure  they  have  not.” 

“  Why  are  you  so  positive,  Vatal?” 

For  a  moment  the  dwarf  was  silent. 

“  I  command  you  to  answer  me,  Vatal,”  she  said,  fasten¬ 
ing  her  flashing  eyes  upon  him,  those  eyes  which  had  such 
a  strange  influence  over  him. 

‘  ‘  I  am  sure  he  has  not  met  Miss  Eienzi  since,  for  he  has 
moved  Heaven  and  earth  almost  to  find  her.” 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Hampton  scarcely  breathed  in  her 
intense  excitement. 

“You  are  perfectly  sure  he  has  not  succeeded,  Vatal?” 

“  Perfectly  sure,  madam;  she  flitted  in  all  that  terrible 
storm ;  we  traced  her  footprints  some  distance  only  to  lose 
them  effectually  in  the  drifts  beyond.” 

“There  is  still  another  question  I  would  ask,  Vatal. 
Who  are  these  strangers  who  persistently  haunt  this 
house?” 

“They  wish  to  see  Mr.  Hampton.” 

“  What  do  they  want  ?” 


A  FATj^lL,  WOOING . 


121 


“They  are  creditors,  madam,  pressing  for  money.” 

“Poor  Heath,”  she  said,  quite  under  her  breath,  “I  did 
not  dream  it  was  so  bad  as  that.” 

“  They  believe  Mr.  Hampton  is  still  abroad,  and  come  to 
ask  when  he  will  return.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  she  answered,  abstractedly;  “you  may  go 
now,  Yatal.  Stay,”  she  called,  as  he  was  about  to  quit  the 
room.  “You  are  quite  contented,  are  you  not,  Vatal?” 

Her  face  was  turned  away,  but  there  was  a  thrill  of 
wistfulness  in  her  voice. 

The  dwarf  was  amazed ;  this  cold  woman,  who  had  not 
deigned  even  so  much  as  a  glance  at  him  for  years,  to  ask 
him  if  he — the  miserable,  despised  dwarf — the  tool  of  her 
capricious  son,  was  contented.  He  wondered  if  he  had 
heard  aright. 

The  deep  silence  annoyed  her. 

“  You  are  contented  with,  your  lot  in  life,  are  you  not, 
Vatal?  Never  having  had  wealth,  education,  or  luxury, 
you  do  not  realize  the  loss  of  them.  You  are  satisfied,  are 
you  not?” 

“  What  good  would  it  do  me  if  I  were  not?”  he  answer¬ 
ed.  “I  was  accursed  from  the  hour  of  my  birth,  and 
abandoned - ” 

“  For  God’s  sake  spare  me,”  she  cried;  then  almost  in¬ 
stantly  recovering  herself. 

The  dwarf  gazed  at  her  with  a  frightened  expression. 
He  thought  he  had  annoyed  her  by  saying  too  much. 

“Go,  now,  Vatal.” 

Instantly  he  obeyed. 

One  thought  troubled  him.  If  she  mentioned  this  inter¬ 
view  to  her  son,  he  dared  not  think  of  the  consequences; 
he  would  go  back  and  beg  her  not  to  mention  it ;  and  turn¬ 
ing  noiselessly  he  retraced  his  steps  and  entered. 

He  was  about  to  speak,  when  suddenly  the  sound  of  his 
name  on  her  lips  chained  his  attention. 

“Poor  Vatal,”  she  said,  with  a  hard,  dry  sob.  “  His  in¬ 
firmity  should  have  caused  pity,  not  hatred ;  all  should 
have  been  his !” 

She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 

“’Twas  all  for  Heath’s  sake,”  she  muttered. 

Vatal  could  not  explain  the  impulse  which  caused  him  to 
secrete  himself  behind  the  heavy,  hanging  curtains  where 
he  could  see  and  hear  unobserved. 

“  Fool  that  I  am,  ’tis  too  late  now  to  give  vent  to  sorrow 
thus,”  she  cried,  touching  a  taper  to  the  fire,  and  securely 
fastening  the  door. 

Heath  shall  have  money,  just  this  once,”  she  mutter* 
ed ;  and  drawing  from  her  bosom  a  peculiar  long,  thin  key, 


122 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


she  parted  the  hanging  curtains  of  an  alcove,  disclosing  a 
heavy,  iron  chest,  which  she  hastily  unlocked. 

The  iron  door  creaked  noisily  back  on  its  rusty  hinges. 
From  the  safe  she  took  two  dark,  mahogany  boxes,  which 
she  placed  on  the  table,  drawing  up  her  rocker  close  beside 
them,  and  proceeded  to  examine  their  contents. 

One  was  filled  with  papers — most  of  them  dingy  with 
age,  at  sight  of  which  for  a  moment  she  lay  back  so  white 
and  still  in  her  chair,  Yatal  thought  she  must  have  fainted. 

She  aroused  herself,  crushing  the  papers  hastily  back 
into  the  box ;  she  did  not  notice  a  small,  well-worn  package 
that  slipped  from  her  grasp,  rolling  noiselessly  to  Yatal’s 
very  feet. 

Had  she  turned  her  head  ever  so  slightly,  she  must  have 
observed  it,  if  she  put  forth  her  hand  to  recover  it,  detec¬ 
tion  must  have  surely  followed. 

The  dwarf  knew  this,  and  in  an  instant  he  stooped  down 
and  possessed  himself  of  the  package,  which  he  hastily 
thrust  into  his  pocket. 

The  contents  of  the  other  box  absorbed  Mrs.  Hampton’s 
attention. 

The  dwarf  fairly  held  his  breath  as  the  glimmering  light 
fell  upon  its  contents,  heaped  to  the  brim  with  bright, 
shining  gold. 

The  very  sight  made  the  fire  leap  through  Yatal’s  veins. 

She  carefully  counted  out  one  thousand  dollars  in  coins, 
piling  them  upon  the  table,  replaced  the  boxes  in  the  safe 
and  the  key  about  her  neck ;  tied  the  coins  in  her  kerchief, 
and  after  placing  them  securely  under  her  pillow,  tossed 
herself  upon  her  couch  to  rest. 

The  eyelids  slowly  closed  over  the  tired  eyes,  and  her 
regular  breathing  showed  Yatal  that  she  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

A  CRUEL  SON. 

A  wild  desire  had  seized  the  dwarf,  at  the  sight  of  the 
gold,  to  possess  it. 

What  could  he  not  do  if  it  were  only  his ! 

Yatal  had  never  been  totally  depraved  at  heart. 

There  had  been  moments  when  many  a  generous  impulse 
to  do  a  good  deed  had  stirred  in  the  dwarfs  heart;  but  the 
world  had  shunned  and  derided  him,  and  the  good  impulses 
were  wholly  crushed  out  by  cruel  insults. 

The  great  temptation  was  more  than  he  could  withstand. 

To  possess  himself  of  the  gold  beneath  the  pillow  was  but 
the  work  of  an  instant ;  but  the  key  to  the  chest,  how  could 
fje  obtain  that,  the  key  which  held  the  treasure? 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


123 


“I  must  have  the  gold  in  yonder  chest,  let  the  conse¬ 
quences  be  what  they  may,”  he  muttered. 

As  he  stooped  over  the  prostrate  form,  the  door  swung 
softly  back  on  its  hinges. 

Vatal  had  hardly  time  to  draw  back  into  the  shadow  of 
the  curtains  ere  Heath  Hampton,  with  white  face  and 
gleaming  eyes,  softly  and  stealthily  as  a  panther,  glided 
into  the  room. 

He  carried  a  shaded  night-lamp  in  his  hand,  which  he 
placed  noiselessly  on  the  table. 

For  an  instant  only  he  hesitated. 

“By  fair  means  or  foul,”  he  muttered,  setting  his  lips 
firmly  together,  “  I  must  have  money.” 

He  groped  his  way  carefully  about  the  room  until  his 
hand  came  in  contact  with  the  iron  safe ;  again  the  curtains 
were  looped  back,  and  the  midnight  intruder  proceeded  to 
carefully  examine  the  lock. 

He  drew  a  bunch  of  skeleton-keys  from  his  pocket,  in¬ 
serting  them  one  by  one  in  the  rusty  lock. 

“  The  money  will  not  be  missed  for  a  day  or  two,”  he 
muttered. 

He  drew  the  last  key  from  the  lock ;  the  desperate  frown 
on  his  face  deepened—  useless  I 

Then  commenced  a  thorough  search  through  the  room, 
bureaus  were  rifled  and  boxes  overturned  without  success. 

Mrs.  Hampton  moved  uneasily  in  her  slumbers  at  that 
moment ;  the  cord  about  her  neck  .attracted  his  attention. 
Without  an  instant’s  deliberation,  he  severed  it  in  twain 
and  held  the  coveted  key  at  last  in  his  hand. 

Again  the  door  of  the  safe  swung  back  on  its  rusty  hinges 
with  a  loud  creak. 


Heath  Hampton  stooped,  listening  intently. 

The  sleeper  stirred  uneasily,  and  the  dwarf  from  his  hid¬ 
ing-place  distinctly  heard  her  murmur : 

“No  one  must  know  thd  contents  of  the  safe,  for  Heath’s 
sake ;  the  secret  must  die  with  me !” 

Carefully  the  son  abstracted  the  two  boxes,  quickly  and 
noiselessly  forcing  open  the  lids. 

“  Ah!  the  papers,”  he  muttered,  “they  must  be  secured 
as  well  as  the  gold.  Women  must  not  guard  so  vital  a 
secret;  once  destroyed  they  will  tell  no  tales.” 

He  made  a  hurried  examination  of  the  remaining  con¬ 
tents  of  the  safe,  and  evidently  satisfied,  he  hurriedly 
locked  it,  replacing  the  key  about  the  sleeper’s  neck,  and 
securing  the  two  boxes,  he  stole  softly  from  the  apartment, 
followed  by  the  revengeful  dwarf. 

When  quite  opposite  the  library,  Vatal  spoke. 

“  Js  that  you,  Mr,  Hampton?”  he  aspect 


124 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


With  a  bitter  oath,  which  nearly  caused  him  to  drop  the 
two  boxes  he  carried,  Heath  Hampton  turned  upon  him. 

“  What  are  you  doing  up  at  this  hour  of  the  night?”  he 
demanded,  sharply. 

‘  ‘  I  have  been  waiting  to  see  you  all  the  evening.  I  have 
important - •’  ’ 

“You  miserable  cur!”  cried  Hampton,  with  an  impotent 
yell  of  rage;  “  you  have  been  watching  me,  have  you,  dog¬ 
ging  my  footsteps,  eh?  I’ll  have  a  short  settlement  with 
you  here  and  now.” 

“You  are  mistaken,”  said  the  dwarf,  coolly,  his  eyes 
gleaming  a  dusky  fire ;  “I  have  news  of  Miss  Eienzi,  which 
I  learned  to-night,  but  it  takes  money  to  buy  it.” 

For  a  moment  Hampton  glared  at  him  as  if  in  doubt 
what  course  to  pursue. 

“Well,  in  that  case  it’s  a  little  different.  What  makes 
you  think  I  can  pay  for  your  cursed  secret,  when  you  know 
how  I  am  fixed  financially?” 

“You  might  raise  the  money  for  that,  if  it’s  worth  any¬ 
thing  to  you,”  answered  Vatal,  doggedly. 

“  How  much  do  you  want?  Five  dollars?” 

The  blood  boiled  in  Vatal’s  veins  as  he  thought  of  the  box 
so  heavily  laden  with  gold  which  he  knew  was  secreted 
under  the  cloak  Hampton  wore. 

“  Not  a  cent  less  than  one  hundred  dollars,”  replied  the 
dwarf,  determinedly. 

“Well,  for  once  I’ll  humor  you.  What  do  you  know 
about  Miss  Eeinzi’s  whereabouts?” 

Still  Vatal  hesitated. 

“Oh,  I  see ;  it’s  cash  in  advance,  eh  ?  See  that  the  in¬ 
formation  is  worth  it,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.” 
As  he  spoke  he  placed  the  sum  grudgingly  in  Vatal’s 
hand. 

“I  have  traced  her  to  her  hiding-place,  not  ten  miles  dis¬ 
tant.” 

“  Can  it  be  possible?”  cried  Hampton,  excitedly. 

“Yes,”  replied  Vatal;  “and  the  strangest  part  of  the 
affair — she  is  at  Ulvesford  Manor !” 

“  W-h-a  t !”  shrieked  the  irate  Hampton,  “do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  she,  too,  is  beneath  that  roof?  How  do  you 
know?” 

“  I  saw  her  face  at  the  window  twice.” 

“  When?” 

“  Once  last  week,  and  again  to  day.” 

“You  rascally  cur,  how  does  it  happen  you  did  not  come 
to  me  directly  with  the  information  then?  Why,  do  you 
know,  I  have  half  a  mind  to  thrash  you  within  an  inch  of 
your  life?” 

The  dwarf  set  his  lips  tightly  together  as  he  replied ; 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


125 


‘*1  was  not  quite  sure  until  to-day  that  it  was  she.” 

“Humph!”  ejaculated  Hampton,  slightly  mollified,  as  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  toward  his  apartment. 

An  hour  later,  with  a  heavy,  dark  cloak  thrown  about 
his  shoulders,  more  to  conceal  the  boxes  he  carried,  than 
from  actual  need,  Heath  Hampton  quietly  quitted  the 
house. 

“  I  must  never  lose  sight  of  him  and  that  girl,”  muttered 
Vatal,  stealthily  following  his  footsteps. 

It  was  evident  that  Hampton  was  at  a  loss  as  to  which 
road  he  had  better  take. 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  occur  to  him ;  he  would  go 
down  the  river  a  short  distance  toward  Ulvesford  Manor. 

A  bold  scheme  occurred  to  him — why  not  abduct  the  girl 
- — he  had  plenty  of  money  to  see  himself  through? 

“I  will  do  it,”  he  cried :  “ha!  my  bird,  flap  your  pretty 
wings  as  much  as  you  like,  I  will  hover  about  like  a  hawk 
and  swoop  down  upon  you  when  you  least  expect.” 

Several  skiffs  lay  fastened  to  their  moorings ;  he  tossed 
his  burden  into  one  of  them,  took  up  the  oars  and  floated 
silently  down  with  the  tide. 

A  few  moments  later,  a  second  boat  pushed  out  quietly 
into  the  stream,  keeping  close  to  the  bank,  silently  follow¬ 
ing  in  the  wake  of  the  first. 

The  night  was  dark  and  cloudy;  the  two  boats — out 
alone  in  the  darkness  and  the  night,  were  within  a  few  feet 
of  each  other. 

Suddenly  Hampton’s  skiff  lay  motionless  on  the  wave. 

There  was  a,  low,  gurgling  sound,  as  of  a  heavy  weight 
dropped  down  into  the  silent  water,  followed  by  a  moment¬ 
ary  ripple ;  then  the  dark  waters,  that  had  had  full  many 
a  secret,  which  they  never  yet  divulged,  intrusted  to  their 
keeping,  flowed  on. 

The  dwarf  marked  the  spot  well. 

Hampton’s  skiff  glided  rapidly  onward  to  its  fatal  mis¬ 
sion,  followed  closely  in  the  rear  by  the  one  occupied  by 
Vatal,  the  dwarf. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  LINKS  OF  FATE. 

For  an  instant  the  room  seemed  to  whirl  around  Izetta. 

“Alderic,  Alderic!”  she  cried,  but  the  words  died  away 
on  her  lips,  making  no  sound. 

He -turned  his  handsome  face  where  the  sunshine  fell  full 
upon  his  fair,  curling  hair. 

Ah,  God !  It  was  not  an  imprecation,  but  a  prayer  for 
strength  to  live  through  it. 


126  A  FATAL  WOOING 

The  fair-haired  stranger,  with  a  voice  so  like,  was  not 
Alderic. 

Yet  the  great  resemblance  for  an  instant  had  electrified 
her.  She  was  face  to  face  with  the  original  of  the  portrait, 
yet  this  was  not  Alderic. 

For  an  instant  Ulmont  Ulvesford  gazed  down  into  those 
dark,  terrified  eyes,  with  a  puzzled,  thoughtful  expression. 

He  could  not  remember  that  they  had  ever  met  before ; 
yet  just  such  a  pair  of  dark,  soulful  eyes  as  these  seemed 
ever  haunting  him. 

In  crowded  halls,  in  sunlight  and  in  gloaming,  in  the 
silent  hour  of  midnight,  he  had  seen  just  such  passionful, 
pleading  eyes. 

Then  he  remembered  he  must  not  be  wanting  in  courtesy 
toward  this  helpless  stranger. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

“Mrs.  Ross,  I  believe,’ vhe  said. 

He  wondered  why  the  little,  cold  hand  dropped  so  sud¬ 
denly  from  his  own,  and  the  blood  swept  over  those  pale 
cheeks  and  receded  again,  leaving  them  whiter  than  the 
petals  of  a  white  rose. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Mrs.  Ross;  I  was 
unexpectedly  summoned  out  into  the  grounds;  I  trust  you 
will  pardon  my  delay,”  he  said,  in  his  clear,  musical  voice 

He  drew  up  a  chair  tbward  the  fire,  sitting  opposite  her. 

Izetta  thought  she  must  surely  die  then  and  there,  as  she 
watched  that  handsome  face  over  which  the  firelight 
flickered ;  every  gesture  reminded  her  so  forcibly  of  Alderic, 
her  faithless  husband. 

She  wondered  if  the  mouth,  quite  concealed  by  the 
drooping  mustache,  was  firm  and  haughty  like  Alderic’s. 
Had  this  stranger  had  dark,  waving  hair  like  him,  Izetta 
would  have  fled;  the  sight  would  have  been  more  than  she 
could  bear. 

The  very  touch  of  his  hand,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
thrilled  her  through  and  through. 

“Oh,  cruel,  relentless  fate,”  she  cried,  “  why  have  you 
brought  me  face  to  face  with  one  so  like  Alderic,  whom  I 
thought  like  none  other !” 

How  could  she  remain  beneath  the  same  roof  with  this 
man,  breathe  the  same  air,  listen  to  his  voice — and  live? 
The  very  torture  would  drive  her  to  madness. 

By  a  great  effort  Izetta  collected  her  scattered  thoughts 
to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying. 

“My  wife  has  told  me  your  sad  history;  believe  me,  you 
have  my  deepest  sympathy,  Mrs.  Ross.  My  wife  was  warm 
in  your  praise,  but  I  see  she  has  not  overdrawn  in  her  de¬ 
scription.  You  will  pardon  me,  I  trust,  for  broaching  so 
sore  a  subject,  but  I  cannot  understand  how  a  man  could 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 


127 


desert  a  tender,  clinging  little  creature  like  yourself;  it  is 
so  strange,  I  am  lost  in  amazement.  TV as  your  husband 
of  the  same  nativity  as  yourself.  Mrs.  Boss?" 

“  No.  I  think  not.  he  came  from  France,  yet  I  believe 
him  to  be  an  American." 

“  Ah!”  thought  Ulmont.  “  the  wretch  brought  her  over 
the  seas  to  his  own  land  to  abandon  her.  '‘You  have  no 
cert  iii cate  of  your  marriage?  ' 

“No,  sir:  mv  husband  said  the  rector  was  to  forward 
one,  as  soon  as  he  reached  home.” 

“  That  is  very  bad — very  bad.  indeed,  "  reflected  Ulmont ; 
‘‘for  the  sake  of  trie  child  he  should  be  found,  if  possible. 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  assist  you ;  the  case  must  be  put  in 
the  hands  of  the  most  experienced  detectives:  they  are 
used  to  such  cases.  Society  is  in  danger  with  such  a  man 
at  large." 

‘ 4 1  firmlv  believe  some  dav  we  shall  meet. "  exclaimed 

«* 

Izetta :  “  a  solemn  voice  seems  whispering — we  shall 
one  day  meet ;  then,  before  the  world,  he  shall  acknowl¬ 
edge  me — his  wife,  and  acknowledge  his  little,  innocent 

child!” 

“You  have  no  clew  by  which  you  could  trace  him?” 

“None  whatever,  sir."  she  answered,  sadly.  “I  shall 
trust  blindly  to  Heaven  to  guide  me.” 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  felt  the  deepest  compassion  for  this 
beautiful  young  Greature ;  there  was  no  taint  of  worldii- 
ness  about  her. 

Five  minutes  after  he  heard  her  speak,  he  would  have 
stake.!  his  life  on  her  virtue  and  her  honor. 

“  iou  will  find  a  haven  of  rest  here.”  he  said.  “ for  both 
yourself  and  your  child.  You  please  Loraine.  therefore  I 
am  only -too  "pleased  to  join  with  her  in  offering  you  a 
home. n 

Izetta  could  not  speak,  so  great  was  her  emotion,  great 
tears  of  gratitude  filled  her  eyes. 

“  As  for  the  child."  he  continued.  “ a  suitable  nurse  can 
soon  he  procured  for  the  little  fellow." 

How  sweet  and  restful  it  sounded  to  Izetta  to  hear  this 

El  easant- voiced  young  man  planning  so  thoughtfully  for 
,er  little  babv  s  future. 

m 

“  Even  a  stranger."  she  thought,  bitterly.  “  is  more  kind 
to  the  child  than  his  own  father  has  been,  the  father  who 
knows  not  of  his  very  existence." 

“  I  think  the  little  one  is  the  handsomest  child,  without 
a  doubt.  I  have  ever  seen.  I  s  hould  like  him  to  remain 
here."  Ulmont  said. 

Izetta  could  have  fallen  on  "her  knees  and  blessed  him  for 

those  words. 


128 


'A  FATAL  WOOING . 


“I  hope  you  have  decided  to  remain  with  us,  Mrs.  Rossf’ 
he  asked,  earnestly. 

“Oh,  most  willingly,  sir,  if  I  may  only  be  permitted  to 
keep  my  little  child  with  me.” 

“  There  is  no  doubt  about  that — why,  of  course,  you  will 
keep  the  child,”  he  replied.  “It  is  seldom  my  wife  takes 
as  much  of  a  fancy  to  anyone  as  she  has  to  you,  Mrs.  Ross. 
She  is  as  capricious  as  the  April  sunshine,  my  proud,  will¬ 
ful  Loraine,  but  you  will  find  her  heart  kind  and  appreci¬ 
ative,  her  friendship  stanch  and  true.  I  do  not  hesitate 
in  believing  that  you  will  always  maintain  the  high  regard 
in  which  she  now  holds  you.  I  can  say  no  more  than  that, 
Mrs.  Ross.” 

“I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  find  words  to  express,” 
murmured  Izetta.  “  I  shall  try  to  be  deserving.” 

“  Then  we  may  consider  the  matter  fully  settled,  shall  we 
not?” 

“If  you  please,  sir,”  she  replied,  gratefully. 

At  that  moment  Loraine  entered  the  room,  gliding  grace¬ 
fully  to  an  ottoman  beside  her  husband’s  chair,  upon  which 
she  seated  herself. 

Ulmont  passed  his  arm  lovingly  around  the  slender 
waist. 

“My  dear,  Mrs.  Ross  has  consented  to  remain  with  her 
charming  little  one.” 

“  I  am  very  pleased  at  her  decision.” 

Ulmont  did  not  notice  the  cloud  that  settled  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  over  his  wife’s  face,  as  he  mentioned  the  child. 

“  I  am  very  sure,  Mrs.  Ross  and  I  will  get  along  famous¬ 
ly  together,”  she  replied,  with  a  smile.  “She  must  put 
away  that  sorrowful  face,  though,  and  look  at  the  bright 
side  of  life.  I  would  rather  die  young,”  she  said,  laughing¬ 
ly,  than  live  to  know  sorrow.  Let  me  live  like  the  bees 
and  birds  coquetting  with  the  flowers.” 

“  Not  like  the  bees  or  the  birds,  I  hope,  for  they  are  fickle, 
coquettish  rovers,”  said  Ulmont,  with  a  roguish  twinkle  in 
his  eyes.  I  could  not  endure  seeing  you  coquetting  with 
other - ” 

Loraine  put  her  white  fingers  over  his  lips. 

“  Other  flowers,  you  were  going  to  say ;  how  do  you 
know  that  you  are  not  considered  a  thorn  or  a,  thistle,  sir?” 

“Not  quite  so  bad  as  that  I  hope,”  he  answered,  quizzi¬ 
cally,  gazing  down  into  the  azure  eyes  laughing  so  brightly, 
sparklingly  up  into  his  face. 

“  Have  you  never  heard  how  the  last  coquettish  ‘  Queen 
Bee’s’  life  is  passed  in  the  pretty  poem?” 

“  No,”  he  admitted.;  “  won’t  you  repeat  it  for  me?” 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  139 

“Yes/’ responded  Loraine,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  back 
of  his  chair. 

“  ‘  Queen  bee  through  many  a  garden  roves, 

And  hums  her  lay  of  courtship  o’er; 

When  she  finds  the  flower  she  loves, 

She  settles  there,  and  roams  no  more.’  ” 

Izetta  watched  the  lover-like  husband  and  wife  with  a 
sick,  troubled  heart. 

“Why  is  not  such  love  mine?”  she  sighed.  “  Why  was 
the  cup  of  happiness  dashed  so  rudely  from  my  lips?” 

She  was  so  young  to  realize  that  love,  light,  and  happi¬ 
ness  were  lost  to  her  forever. 

Every  caress  Ulmont  Ulvesford  gave  his  golden-haired 
young  wife  sank  into  her  heart  like  a  sword-thrust ;  she 
could  not  tell  why  the  sight  gave  her  such  inexpressible 
pain. 

“  I  am  so  glad  the  subject  is  settled,  and  that  you  are 
really  to  stay.” 

Loraine,  gliding  gracefully  across  the  room,  leaned  over 
Izetta,  taking  the  little,  trembling  hands  in  her  own  white, 
jeweled  ones. 

“I  want  you  to  feel  perfectly  at  home  with  us.  Mrs. 
Ross  sounds  so  cold  and  formal,  I  would  much  prefer  call¬ 
ing  you  by  your  given  name.  I  am  sure  it  must  be  some¬ 
thing  very  poetical  and  sweet,  matching  your  foreign  face. 
What  may  I  call  you?” 

“  My  name  is  Izetta,”  she  answered,  blushingly. 

“  Izetta!  What  a  picturesque,  musical  name.  I  do  not 
think  I  have  ever  heard  it  before.  Has  she  not  a  lovely 
name,  Ulmont?”  cried  his  wife,  turning  toward  him. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,”  he  said.  “  I  did  not  hear 
your  remark.  I  was  thinking.’* 

Loraine’s  lips  curled  like  a  pouting,  spoiled  child’s. 

“  How  terribly  provoking,”  she  cried.  “  Half  of  what  I 
say  is  lost  upon  you.  I  do  not  know  which  claims  more  of 
your  attention,  your  wife  or  your  thoughts.” 

“You  might  with  safely  decide  in  favor  of  my  wife,”The 
replied,  gallantly,  “  for  I  assure  you  my  thoughts  are  about 
her.” 

The  frown  cleared  like  magic  from  Loraine’s  face;  she 
blushed  rosily. 

“I  must  beg  your  pardon,”  she  said,  “but,  really,  Ul¬ 
mont,  I  have  never  heard  a  name  quite  as  pretty  as  Mrs. 
Ross’s — it  is  Izetta;  does  it  not  sound  sweetly  foreign?” 

The  goblet  of  ice- water  which  Ulmont  held  in  his  hand 
fell  to  the  floor  with  a  loud  crash. 

He  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  the  sweet,  melodious 
voice  of  Loraine  he  had  heard,  it  seemed  to  have  been, 
shrieked  out  on  the  air. 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


130 

The  name  seemed  to  pierce  his  very  soul — Izetta — had  he 
never  heard  that  name  before? 

He  looked  at  the  sweet,  foreign  face  before  him,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  brow  with  a  strange,  bewildered  sensa¬ 
tion  stealing  over  him. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  made,  in  that  supreme  moment,  a 
mighty,  heroic  effort  to  follow  the  tangled  thoughts  which 
beset  him. 

The  name,  Izetta,  struck  a  strange  chord  in  his  soul.  He 
sighed  sorrowfully,  and  his  thoughts  melted  into  chaos. 

“Why,  Ulmont,  see  what  you  have  done!”  cried  Lo¬ 
raine.  “See,  you  have  spoiled  mv  pretty  Undine,”  she 
cried,  pointing  to  the  hearth-rug,  from  which  the  water 
trickled  in  little,  tiny  rills. 

It  was  too  true ;  the  red  wool  had  dyed  the  white  hand 
of  the  fairy  maid,  which  lay  lightly  upon  her  bodice,  a  deep 
crimson. 

Loraine  shuddered ;  the  white  hand  seemed  as  if  it  were 
clasping  a  broken,  bleeding  heart,  and  the  glowing  firelight, 
leaping  playfully  in  the  grate,  threw  strange  shadows  over 
it. 

“Take  the  rug  away,”  said  Loraine,  nervously,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands.  ‘  ‘  I  never  want  to  behold  it 
again  1” 

Someone  had  once  laughingly  suggested  that  the  fair, 
dainty  coloring  of  this  Undine  resembled  Loraine — would 
her  heart  ever  break  like  this  fair  Undine’s? 

The  servant  removed  all  trace  of  the  accident;  still 
Loraine  felt  nervous. 

“Come,”  said  Loraine,  clasping  Izetta’s  hand,  “come 
with  me  to  my  boudoir.  ” 

Ulmont  Ulvesford,  as  one  fascinated,  watched  them 
leave  the  room  together. 

Never  did  mortal  man  gaze  upon  such  a  strange  sight; 
both  of  these  innocent  women,  peerless  in  their  startling 
beauty,  cruelly  wrecked  by  the  love  of  one  man  upon  the 
jagged  rock  of  fate. 

How  was  it  to  end? 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  BABY’S  FUTURE. 

Ulmont  vetoed  the  idea  of  sending  Izetta’s  child  from 
Ulvesford  Manor,  when  the  subject  was  broached  to  him 
two  weeks  later. 

“  I  cannot  imagine  how  my  tender-hearted  Loraine  could 
entertain,  for  a  moment,  a  thought  so  cruel  as  to  separate 
that  suffering  creature  from  her  child.  ” 

A  tear  stood  in  Loraine’s  eyes  as  she  answered  proudly; 


!  A  FATAL  WOOING . 


181 


“  I  did  not  think  you  would — you  would — care  to  see  a 
Stranger’s  child  playing  about  these  old  corridors.  ” 

“  Do  you  mean  you  would  not  care  to  see  him  here, 
Loraine?” 

She  tossed  her  golden  head  proudly  back ;  the  Lorrimer 
fire  leaped  into  her  calm,  blue  eyes. 

“It  does  not  matter  to  me,  I  assure  you,”  she  replied, 

coldly. 

She  would  sooner  have  cut  her  right  hand  off  than  admit 
to  him  that  she  was  actually  jealous  of  a  strange  little 
child,  bitterly  jealous,  because  she  had  seen  it  lying  for  one 
brief  moment  upon  his  breast,  placed  there  by  her  own 
hands. 

Ulmont  took  her  at  her  word. 

“  I  wondered  if  you  really  desired  that  poor  helpless  lit¬ 
tle  child  sent  away;  it  was  not  like  my  own  generous- 
hearted  Loraine  to  have  such  thoughts.” 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

“  How  does  it  happen  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Eoss  since 
that  morning  you  sent  her  to  the  library?”  he  asked  sud¬ 
denly. 

“  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,”  she  replied. 

“  I  often  laugh  at  the  foolish  fancy,  but  I  quite  believe 
she  avoids  me.  You  should  make  the  shy  little  creature 
feel  more  at  home.  If  I  meet  her  in  hall,  parlor  or  library, 
she  flits  before  me  like  a  shadow.  If  I  speak  to  her  sud¬ 
denly,  she  looks  as  if  she  were  about  to  faint,  she  is  as 
timid  as  a  young  fawn.” 

“Well,”  answered  Loraine,  breaking  into  a  jolly,  little 
laugh,  “  if  that  is  the  case,  the  greatest  kindness  you  can 
do  her,  is  to  let  her  quite  alone.  It  is  plainly  evident  she 
does  not  appreciate  you,  my  dear.” 

He  laughed  good  naturedly,  replying : 

“So  I  supposed.  And  do  you  know,”  he  continued, 
“  your  protege  is  creating  quite  a  furor  hereabouts.  Sev¬ 
eral  of  my  friends  have  urged  me  to  present  them  to  the 
pretty,  little,  foreign  beauty.  You  must  look  to  your  laurels, 
Loraine,  or  the  crimson  rose  may  outbloom  the  tall,  white, 
golden-hearted  lily. 

‘  ‘  As  long  as  there  was  one  who  preferred  the  lily.  I 
should  not  care  who  chose  the  crimson  rose,  or  what  tne 
world  thought,”  she  said,  putting  back  the  fair  hair  that 
clustered  round  his  forehead. 

Ulmont  quickly  imprisoned  the  little,  white  hand,  but 
she  drew  it  hastily  away,  remembering  he  had  not  granted 
the  request  she  had  asked. ___ 

“  I  shall  never  like  that  child,”  she  cried,  her  fair  face 
flushing  angrily,  after  her  husband  had  quitted  the  room; 
“I  am  sure  it  will  be  war  between  us  to  the  bitter  end  I” 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


There  was  a  germ  of  jealousy  away  down  at  the  root  of 
Loraine’s  heart;  it  was  the  inheritance  of  the  Lorrimer 
daughters  for  generations  back.  Gentle,  loving,  tender 
women,  all  of  them,  but  their  love  was  their  life,  their  ruin, 
or  their  salvation.  Loraine  was  the  most  willful,  proudest, 
most  capricious  of  them  all. 

Mrs.  Lorrimer  had  always  said  she  thanked  Heaven  her 
child  had  secured  the  man  she  loved ;  had  it  been  other¬ 
wise,  she  would  have  trembled  at  the  depths  of  despair 
and  passion  which  she  knew  lay  dormant  beneath  that 
fair,  smiling  exterior.  Mrs.  Lorrimer  had  been  bitterly 
opposed  to  Izetta,  because  of  her  rare  beauty ;  she  watched 
her  every  glance  and  word. 

“I  wish  to  Heaven,”  she  often  said  to  herself,  “fate  had 
not  driven  her  there.” 

She  often  saw  Ulmont’s  eyes  resting  on  Izetta’s  face  with 
a  strange,  indefinable  expression,  and  each  day  he  waa 

Sowing  more  fond  of  the  child.  Loraine  might  have  felt 
nder  toward  the  little  one,  had  not  her  mother  spoken  so 
bitterly  on  the  subject. 

Although  Izetta  fled  from  TJlmont  Ulvesford,  she  leved 
to  gaze  upon  him  unobserved ;  she  told  herself  it  was  be¬ 
cause  he  was  so  like  Alderic. 

His  step  upon  the  stair  made  her  heart  flutter  wildly ; 
she  often  wondered  her  heart  did  not  break  when  he  spoke 
to  her  suddenly. 

If  she  saw  him  caress  his  wife,  the  hot  blood  mounted  to 
her  cheeks,  and  she  sought  safety  in  instant  flight.  She 
could  not  endure  it. 

“  How  can  I  see  other  women  content  in  the  priceless 
love  of  their  husband,  while  I,  who  have  loved  so  madly, 
so  purely,  and  so  blindly,  was  so  cruelly  deceived,  shut  out 
from  the  arms  that  should  have  been  my  shield !”  she  cried 
out  to  herself. 

If  she  saw  a  father  returning  from  his  work  with  his  lit¬ 
tle  child  upon  his  shoulder,  or  happy  parents  leading  a  little 
child  between  them,  she  would  cry  out  like  a  wounded  bird  ; 
the  pain  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

People  wondered  why  the  beautiful  companion  of  pretty 
Mrs.  Ulvesford  always  drooped  her  head  when  anyone 
chanced  to  mention  how  dearly  fathers  loved  their  little 
sons,  watched  over  them,  planned  for  them,  and  were  so 
proud  of  them.  They  thought  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Ross  was 
thinking  of  some  far-off  grave. 

Ah !  if  there  had  been  a  grave ;  but  there  was  none.  Her 
husband  walked  the  smiling  earth,  unconscious,  uncaring 
of  the  love  of  a  little  son. 

It  was  strange,  but  she  never  once  imagined  Alderic 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  138 

clasping  another  in  his  arms,  or  another  woman  basking 
in  the  love  that  was  her  own. 

“He  is  my  husband,”  she  told  herself;  that  thought 
alone  seemed  to  shut  out  any  such  possibility  from  her 

mind. 

One  morning  Izetta,  from  her  window,  saw  Ulmont 
Ulvesford  kiss  his  wife  good-bye  on  the  portico;  he  was  to 
be  gone  but  one  day,  only  a  few  hours.  Izetta  noticed 
how  even  so  slight  a  separation  grieved  them;  the  memory 
of  that  kiss  almost  drove  her  mad. 

For  hours  she  paced  the  floor  of  her  room.  Such  a  tor¬ 
rent  of  passionate  tears  welled  up  from  her  tortured  heart! 
She  had  no  one  but  baby  to  whom  she  could  turn  in  her 
loneliness  for  sympathy,  and  even  baby’s  face  oft-time  re¬ 
minded  her  alarmingly  of — Ulmont  Ulvesford. 

Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  her  own  agonized  face  in 
an  opposite  mirror,  and  her  soul  was  filled  with  wonder. 

She  had  suffered  the  keenest  and  most  poignant  grief, 
because  she  had  seen  a  young  husband  lovingly  kiss  his 
own  wife. 

Then  the  startling  truth  burst  upon  her;  she  must  leave 
or  she  would  go  mad. 

How  dare  such  thoughts  stir  her  bosom  when  she  thought 
of  the  husband  of  Loraine  Ulvesford,  or  met  the  glance  of 
his  keen,  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face. 

Izetta  threw  herself  down  on  her  knees  beside  baby  Ul- 
mont’s  couch  and  prayed  Heaven  to  pardon  the  sin  of  her 
own  wild,  thoughtless  fancies. 

She  was  drifting  on  toward  the  brink  of  her  destiny ; 
there  was  but  a  dim  shadowy  outline  separating  the  present 
from  that  future. 

Izetta  bathed  her  eyes,  pressed  her  lips  to  sleeping  Ul- 
mont’s  snowy  forehead  and  went  down  to  the  morning- 
room,  where  she  knew  Mrs.  Ulvesford  awaited  her. 

Loraine  sat  with  some  pretty  worsted-work  in  her  hand, 
but  as  Izetta  entered  she  threw  it  aside. 

“  You  shall  read  to  me,”  she  said;  “  lam  very  dull;  after 
that  we  will  make  out  those  invitations  for  the  lawn  fete 
for  the  first  of  May.  Guess  how  long  you  have  been  here, 
Izetta.” 

“  Quite  four  months,  I  believe.” 

“  Yes,  a  little  over  four  months,  yet  you  are  as  sny  and 
reserved  as  on  the  first  day  you  came.  My  husband  was 
saying  only  yesterday  that  he  wondered  where  in  the 
world  you  were  hiding  yourself;  he  has  seen  you  but  twice 
since  you  have  been  at  the  manor.  I  really  must  protest 
against  this,  Mrs.  Ross ;  you  are  too  pretty  to  immure  your¬ 
self  from  the  world  in  this  fashion.” 

“Believe  me,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  the  greatest  happiness  I 


1S4 


A  FATAL  WOOING 


can  find  is  administering  to  your  wishes  or  baby’s  comfort; 
there  are  moments  when,  thus  employed,  I  quite  forget  my 
sorrow.” 

“Do  you  never  long  for  some  of  the  brightness  that 
makes  other  women’s  lives?”  asked  Loraine. 

“No,”  answered  Izetta,  wearily,  “why  should  I?” 

“Why,  by  right  of  your  youth  and  loneliness.  When 
the  strains  of  a  waltz  and  merry  tripping  feet  fall  upon 
your  ear,  is  there  no  throbbing  of  your  heart  to  break  away 
from  the  gloom  that  surrounds  you  and  mingle  with  the 
gay  throng — to  feast  your  eyes  on  the  brilliancy,  the  bloom, 
and  beauty?” 

“No,”  replied  Izetta;  “I  should  feel  out  of  place;  I 
should  not  care  for  it ;  my  one  great  longing  would  be  to 
escape  it.” 

Loraine  looked  at  the  beautiful,  foreign  face,  so  exquisite 
in  its  rich,  dark  coloring,  and  she  thought  how  mistaken 
the  poets  were  when  they  chose  dark-eyed  women  as  their 
ideals  of  passionate  love.  They  do  not  see  the  brightness 
and  gayety ;  they  see  only  the  somber  side  of  life,  these 
sad,  dark,  dreamy -eyed  women. 

Loraine  could  not  believe  that  down  in  the  turbulent 
depths  of  their  hearts  there  lay  such  a  whirlpool  of  love  as 
would  have  made  her  shudder  at  its  mighty  depths,  only 
awaiting  the  whirlwind  of  some  tragic  event  to  lash  it  into 
a  raging  tempest. 

At  last,  simply  to  gratify  Loraine,  Izetta  promised  to  at¬ 
tend  the  lawn  fete. 

Loraine  was  busy  with  a  thousand  plans  for  the  coming 
summer. 

“You  must  decide  the  most  important  cases  for  me, 
Izetta,”  she  said,  with  a  blush;  “you  know  this  is  my  first 
summer  at  home.” 

“We  must  make  it  a  memorable  one  on  that  account,” 
answered  Izetta. 

“  The  first  of  May,”  saifjL  Loraine,  poising  her  pen  on  her 
dainty  fingers;  “  we  will  set  the  fete  down  for  the  first  day 
in  May.  I  love  the  sweet  month  of  May;  yet  once  it 
brought  me  the  greatest  sorrow  I  had  ever  known.” 

“  No  one  would  think  you  had  ever  known  a  single  care,” 
said  Izetta,  turning  her  dark,  sympathetic  eyes  wonder- 
ingly,  questioningly  on  Loraine’s  face. 

“Yes,”  continued  Loraine,  “  I  was  to  have  been  mar¬ 
ried  last  May.  Ulmont  was  abroad,  but  was  expected 
home  on  the  tenth,  our  marriage  was  set  for  the  fif¬ 
teenth.” 

Izetta  started  slightly;  she  remembered  she  was  mar¬ 
ried  on  the  tenth  of  May. 

6 ‘The  steamer  was  detained,  I  believe,  qy  for  some  unex- 


A  FATAL  WOOING, 


185 


plainable  reason  he  reached  port  late  in  the  afternoon  of 
what  was  to  have  been  our  wedding-day.  Just  as  he  land¬ 
ed  he  was  immediately  summoned  to  his  mother’s  bedside: 
although  I  lived  but  ten  miles  distant,  no  one  sent  for  me, 
lest  the  shock  on  my  wedding-day  would  prove  too  much 
for  me.  I  did  not  kno^v  she  was  ill,  and  expected  her  each 
moment  at  my  home.  I  awaited  my  love  in  my  bridal 
robes.  I  can  never  describe  to  you  the  long,  weary  hours 
I  waited;  still  he  came  not.” 

Loraine  crossed  over  to  where  Izetta  sat,  standing  before 
her  like  a  beautiful  statue  carved  in  marble;  and  with  a 
sudden  motion  her  white  hands  were  clasped  round  her 
rival's  neck. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

“Izetta.”  whispered  Loraine,  “you  will  never  realize 
what  I  suffered,  on  what  was  to  have  been  my  bridal  eve, 
for  the  lover -bridegroom  who  came  not.  People  look  upon 
my  face  and  say,  with  a  smile :  4  Her  life  has  been  sweet 

and  dreamy,  like  a  poem;  no  cloud  has  ever  fallen  athwart 
her  sunshine.’  Nobody  except  poor  mamma  knew  that  I 
lived  the  agony  of  a  life-time  in  those  few  hours:  at  last  a 
messenger  came,  breaking  the  terrible  news.  He  was  at 
Ulvesford  Mansion,  lying  dangerously  wounded  by  a  fall 
over  the  cliff  into  the  raging  sea.” 

There  was  no  lack  of  sympathy  in  the  dark  eyes  which 
gazed  into  Loraine’s,  expressed  more  kindly  than  words 
would  have  done. 

“I  never  knew  a  happy  moment  until  he  recovered;  you 
cannot  wonder  why  I  tremble  so  when  he  leaves  my  eight. 
Do  you  know,  Izetta,  that  if  anything  were  to  happen  to 
my  husband  I  should  pray  Heaven  that  I  might  die!  ’ 

“You  must  not  have  such  strange  thoughts,  Mrs.  Ul¬ 
vesford  ;  nothing  could  happen  to  your  husband ;  nothing 
could  separate  you.” 

“  So  you  thought,  Izetta,  when  your  husband  parted  from 
you." 

“That  was  a ’sadly  different  case,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  your 
husband  loves  you." 

Loraine  shuddered  at  the  pitiful  wail  in  the  sweet,  young 
voice. 

“  I  should  droop  and  die  without  Ulmont’s  love,”  whis- 

Eered  Loraine.  “Mrs.  Ross,” she  exclaimed,  coming  nearer, 
er  fair  face  eloquent  with  emotion,  “I  often  wonder  if 
God  does  not  disapprove  of  so  great  a  love  as  is  mine.  I 
cannot  find  words  to  express  to  you  how  dearly  I  love  Ul- 
paont.  I  could  not  be  like  those  noble  women  of  old  who 


136 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


have  given  up  their  love  for  duty ;  I  should  fling  myself  in 
the  dust  at  his  feet  and  pray  him  to  take  the  life  which 
was  not  worth  the  living — without  his  love.” 

“You  are  fanciful,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  you  are  as  pale  as 
death,”  cried  Izetta,  in  alarm. 

“  The  very  thought  of  such  a  possibility  makes  me  weak 
and  faint,”  shuddered  Loraine. 

“Believe  me,  you  are  entertaining  impossibilities  in 
your  thoughts;  we  must  banish  them  at  once,”  said  Izetta 
cheerfully ;  continuing:  “Now  that  we  have  finished  the 
invitations,  shall  we  not  examine  the  new  silks  which 
arrived  for  you  yesterday?” 

Again,  like  the  April  sunshine,  Loraine’s  fair,  flower-like 
face  cleared,  and  Izetta  saw  she  had  quite  forgotten^  al¬ 
most  the  next  moment,  in  beholding  the  shimmering  silks, 
her  late  gloomy  fancies. 

“I  have  a  surprise  for  you,  Izetta,”  she  cried  gayly;  “I 
did  not  anticipate  your  refusal  to  attend  my  lawn  fete ,  and 
have  ordered  a  special  costume  for  the  occasion  for  you. 
Stop!  do  not  thank  me,  Izetta;  you  will  quite  overwhelm 
me  if  you  do.” 

“  It  is  you  who  quite  overwhelm  me ,  Mrs.  Ulvesford  ;'I — I 
do  not  deserve  such  kindness  at  your  hands — I  have  done 
so  little  to  merit  it.” 

Loraine  playfully  placed  her  white  fingers  above  the  red, 
quivering  lips,  holding  up  a  jaunty,  amber  silk,  with  here 
and  there  a  dash  of  the  richest,  softest,  and  darkest  crimson. 

“  I  knew  how  superbly  this  costume  would  set  off  that 
piquant,  foreign  face.  Stop !  I  command  you  to  hear  me 
through,”  she  said,  laughingly:  I  wanted  your  dark,  rich 
coloring  as  a  foil  to  my  own  colorless  face.” 

“  Mrs.  Ulvesford - ” 

Loraine  continued,  laughingly: 

“You  must  not  think  that  my  kindness,  as  you  are 
pleased  to  term  it,  sprang  from  an  exactly  generous 
impulse;  but  mind,”  she  added  roguishly,  “you  are  not  to 
outshine  me,  you  know.” 

“That  would  be  as  impossible,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ulvesford, 
as  for  the  dark,  starless  night  to  eclipse  the  fair,  smiling, 
sun-radiant  day,”  Izetta  exclaimed,  earnestly. 

Loraine  shook  her  golden  curls  eoquettishly ;  still  she  was 
quite  willing  to  be  convinced. 

How  little  either  of  these  two  women  realized  how  bit¬ 
ter  the  struggle  was  to  be  between  them;  the  one,  proud 
haughty,  beautiful,  and  wilful;  the  other  sweet,  submis¬ 
sive,  meekly  lovely,  and  loveable. 

They  were  well  matched.  Loraine,  the  capricious  beauty, 
Was  in  quite  quandary  as  to  what  to  wear. 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  187 

“I  want  something  new  and  startling;  you  must  decide 
for  me,  Izetta.” 

“  If  it  rests  with  me,”  said  Izetta,  “  I  should  not  hesitate 
in  selecting  this  white,  silvery  gauze.” 

“  Do  you  think  it  would  suit  me?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“  I  do  not  like  the  half-sleeves  and  bared  shoulders,” 
answered  Loraine,  ruefully. 

“  I  did  not  notice  the  neck  and  sleeves,”  answered  Izetta ; 
“  if  it  only  had  a  covering  of  lace  at  the  throat,  the  effect 
would  be  charming.” 

“  I  have  a  lace  fichu  somewhere,  quite  yellow  with  age; 
do  you  think  we  could  make  it  answer?” 

“That  would  be  very  appropriate  indeed,  and  with  a 
bunch  of  white  heath  or  heliotrope  on  the  breast,  would 
form  so  pleasing  a  picture,  that  the  guests  who  saw  you 
would  never  forget  the  lovely  apparition.” 

“You  sweet  little  flatterer,”  exclaimed  Loraine;  “you 
will  make  me  exceedingly  vain.  You  may  go  to  the  old 
chest  in  my  room  and  bring  the  fichu — we  will  look  at  the 
effect  anyhow;  the  chest  is  not  locked.” 

Izetta  little  dreamed  that  that  one  event  was  the  turning- 
point  of  her  life;  and  fair  Loraine,  the  golden-haired,  be¬ 
loved  young  wife,  knew  not  that  she  had  spoken  the  words 
which  were  to  be  the  death-warrant  of  her  love,  her  life 
her  home,  and  happiness. 

The  sweet  odor  of  May  blossoms  stole  in  at  the  open 
window.  The  yellow  canary  in  its  gilded-cage  coquetted 
with  the  crimson-breasted  robin  swaying  two  and  fro  on 
the  budding  cedar  boughs  hard  by,  as  if  the  crudest  blow 
that  could  be  stricken  at  a  human  heart  was  not  about  to 
fall. 

“  I  call  that  my  ‘  curiosity  shop,’  ”  said  Loraine,  gayly ; 
“  I  have  no  idea  of  the  contents  of  it ;  some  day,  Izetta  you 
shall  assort  its  contents  for  me;  you  will  find  no  end  of 
interesting  bric-a-brac;  the  histories  of  many  of  these 
souvenirs  are  wonderfully  romantic ;  among  the  debris  you 
will  come  across  a  bunch  of  faded  forget-me-nots,  to  which 
is  attached  a  card  with  the  initials  H.  H.  The  person 
whose  name  those  initials  represent  was  a  beau  of  mine. 
You  look  surprised,  Izetta,”  she  added,  with  a  gay  laugh; 
“oh,  I  assure  you  I  was  quite  a  belle  before  I  married; 
why,  the  poor  fellow  who  sent  those  flowers  quite  refused 
to  be  comforted.  We  met  him  abroad ;  I  would  scarcely 
have  recognized  him  he  was  so  changed,  and  all  for  love 
of  me,”  sighed  Loraine,  pityingly;  “  ’twas  said  he  lingered 
long  over  the  wine-cup ;  I  do  not  know  how  true  that  was  ; 
though  he  was  to  accompany  Ulmont  and  me  on  our  re¬ 
turn  trip  home,  he  failed  to  join  us,  and  I  afterward  read 


138 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


in  the  papers  that  he  was  dangerously  wounded  in  a  duel 
on  the  slippery  Alpine  heights  the  evening  before  we  left. 
I  never  knew  if  he  recovered,  although  I  nave  repeatedly 
searched  the  foreign  exchanges.  You  will  find  among  the 
rest  a  faded  lily ;  shall  I  tell  you  why  I  prize  that  above  all 
else?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  taking  up  the  lily  which  lay  in 
a  crimson  velvet  bed. 

“Because,”  whispered  Loraine,  with  a  faint  flush,  “I 
wore  that  twined  in  my  hair  on  the  evening  Ulmont  asked 
me  to  be  his  wife :  he  was  going  abroad  on  the  morrow. 

“  ‘  Give  me  thai  lily,  Loraine,’  he  said,  ‘  and  I  shall  wear 
it  over  my  heart ;  whenever  I  gaze  upon  it  I  shall  remem¬ 
ber  my  Loraine’s  golden  curls  have  rested  against  its  white 

Eetals  and  its  golden  cup.’  That  is  the  reason  that  faded 
ower  is  beyond  all  price  to  me,”  she  said,  softly. 

At  last  the  fichu  was  found.  As  Izetta  shook  out  its 
filmy  folds,  something  dropped  into  her  lap,  hitting  the 
wedding-ring  she  wore  with  a  clear,  musical  sound.  Care¬ 
lessly  she  stretched  forth  her  hands  to  clasp  it. 

Loraine  never  forgot  the  wild,  terrified  crv  that  broke 
from  Izetta’s  lips  as  she  held  up  at  arm’s  length  a  pearl  por¬ 
trait  of  a  woman’s  face  upon  the  petal  of  a  graceful  lily, 
her  drooping  curls  wound  round  the  stem  and  mingling 
with  its  golden  calyx. 

One  sharp,  jagged  end  had  pierced  her  tender  hand 
falling,  the  hand  which  wore  her  marriage-ring. 

“My  husband  painted  that  portrait,”  said  Loraine, 
proudly. 

“  Alderic,  Alderic,”  moaned  Izetta,  faintly;  the  next  mo¬ 
ment  she  lay  white  and  motionless  at  Loraine  Ulvesford’a 
feet. 

Heaven  pity  her,  the  wronged  voung  wife  and  mother, 
the  plaything  of  fate,  more  cruel  than  the  grave  in  its  bit* 
ter  sting  I 

Kind  hands  bore  Izetta  to  her  chamber,  placing  her  on 
the  couch  beside  little  Ulmont,  who  gazed  in  baby  wonder 
at  the  still,  white  face  of  her  who  was  wont  to  caress  him. 

Was  it  kind  of  Heaven  that  the  terrible  stroke  had  not 
killed  her  then  and  there ;  was  it  kind  she  should  struggle 
back  to  life  when  death  would  have  been  such  a  relief  to 
her? 

Loraine  had  left  the  room  in  charge  of  the  nurse  an  hour 
before.  And  the  good  old  nurse  wondered  why  the  dark 
eyes  bore  such  an  expression  of  agony  in  their  depths. 

“  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mrs.  Ross?”  she  inquired, 
and  the  answer  came  in  a  pitiful  wail : 

‘ ‘  Yes ;  leave  me  alone;  it  is  the  greatest  kindness  you 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  180 

can  do  me,”  and  the  beautiful  face  was  turned  toward  tne 
wall. 

Still  the  attendant  was  loth  to  leave  her  alone ;  all  the 
years  of  her  life  she  had  been  used  to  seeing  sickness  and 
sorrow,  but  she  had  never  seen  such  terrible  woe  in  a  human 
face  before.  A  sudden  fear  crossed  her  mind. 

“If  I  leave  you  alone,”  she  said,  “promise  me  you  will 
do  nothing  rash.  I  do  not  know  what  great  sorrow  has 
come  to  you,  but  try  to  remember,  for  your  baby’s  sake, 
that  you  must  bear  up  bravely.  Have  you  forgotten  your 
little  baby  in  your  sorrow,  lady?” 

“No,”  exclaimed  Izetta,  “it  was  of  him  I  was  thinking 
most ;  God  help  him ;  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  think  of  my  poor 
little  child,”  she  cried. 

Once  more  she  was  shut  out  from  the  gaze  of  mortal 
eyes— she  was  alone;  had  not  little  Ulmont  been  there, 
whom  she  loved,  to  claim  her  attention,  her  reason  must 
certainly  have  left  her. 

Loraine  Ulvesford’s  voice  still  rang  in  her  ears,  saying: 

“  My  husband  painted  that  portrait.” 

Izetta  leaned  far  out  into  the  summer  night,  gazing  up 
into  the  starry  heavens. 

“It  was  Alderic,  my  husband,  who  painted  that  por- 
trait,”  she  cried,  wildly. 

Her  thoughts  flashed  through  her  brain  like  lightning. 

How  came  Loraine  Ulvesford  with  that  portrait?  Was 
she  dreaming?  Ah !  the  face  of  the  portrait,  where  had  she 
seen  one  like  it? 

Merciful  Heaven!  it  was  the  smiling  face  of  Loraine 
which  she  had  seen  in  the  hand  of  Alderic,  her  husband; 
which  Alderic,  her  husband,  had  worn  on  his  breast. 

Izetta’s  breath  came  quick  and  hot;  the  blood  leaped 
through  her  veins  like  molten  lead ;  the  very  air  seemed 
seething  with  all-consuming  fire,  bathing  her  very  soul  in 
its  fiery  caldron. 

There  could  be  no  mistake;  was  not  the  very  jagged  cor¬ 
ner  proof  positive?  Izetta  held  the  portrait  tightly  clinch* 
ed  in  her  hand  when  she  had  swooned,  and  they  had  not 
taken  it  from  her. 

She  saw  the  portrait  like  a  mocking,  jeering  falsehood 
coolly  confronting  her  upon  the  table.  She  thought  of 
that  jagged  edge  of  pearl  she  had  so  carefully  treasured. 

In  another  instant  she  held  them  in  her  hand;  would 
those  rough  edges  meet?  God  pity  her,  in  another  instant 
rile  would  know. 


140  A  FATAL  WOOING. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WHICH  WAS  HIS  WIFE. 

Hoping  almost  against  hope,  lzetta  caught  up  the  por¬ 
trait. 

Oh,  cruelest  of  cruel  evidence,  the  jagged  edges  fitted 
each  other  exactly;  this  was  no  dream,  but  a  terrible 
reality  forced  upon  her. 

The  face,  the  form,  the  voice  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford  were 
so  like  Alderic,  the  husband  who  had  abandoned  her  to  the 
cold  mercies  of  the  pitiless  world,  the  husband  who  had 
cast  her  adrift,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  the  blackest  of 
falsehoods  in  his  heart.  The  very  breeze  seemed  whisper¬ 
ing  the  startling  thought. 

Great  God,  it  could  not  be  true. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  Alderic,  her  husband,  could  not 
be  one  and  the  same. 

“  This  one  has  fair  hair;  Alderic’s  was  dark,”  she  cried; 
“  and  brother  or  other  kindred  he  had  none;  he  was  the 
last  of  his  race.” 

The  very  enormity  of  the  terrible  discovery  which  was 
dawning  upon  her  almost  drove  her  mad. 

If  Loraine’s  husband  was  Alderic,  did  he  not  know  her? 
If  he  was  her  husband,  how  could  he  be  the  husband  of 
Loraine? 

“  If  this  is  Alderic,”  she  cried,  “  Great  Heaven,  which  of 
us  is  his  wife?” 

The  low  breathing  of  little  Ulmont  aroused  her;  the 
thought  of  baby  was  the  keenest  thrust  of  all. 

“For  baby’s  sake,”  she  whispered,  “I  must  probe  this 
mystery  to  the  very  bottom.” 

lzetta  drew  herself  up  proudiv  to  her  full  height ;  she 
forgot  the  wild,  passionful  love  she  had  borne  her  husband 
in  the  face  of  the  foul  wrong  that  had  been  done  the  de¬ 
serted  wife. 

“  This/cannot  be  Alderic,”  she  wailed,  “  the  husband  of 
another — for  am  not  I  his  wife  before  God  and  man?  The 
very  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  and  the  listening  angels 
can  bear  witness  to  my  marriage.  I  would  have  flung  my¬ 
self  into  the  stormy  ocean  before  I  would  have  bent  myself 
to  even  a  shadow  of  wrong  in  thought  or  action.  I  have 
always  held  my  honor  stainless.  I  shall  not  believe  it  sul¬ 
lied  now.  Heaven  could  not  have  been  so  cruel.  I  could 
not  hope  to  meet  my  angel  mother  above,  if  a  stain  lay 
on  my  soul.” 

A  great  torrent  of  tears  welled  up  from  the  dark  eyes, 
bringing  no  relief. 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  14l 

She  flung  herself  down  on  the  couch,  her  long  dark  hair 
falling  around  her  like  a  veil,  moaning  out: 

“Alderic,  Alderic!  oh,  cruel  love,  better  I  had  died  in 
infancy  upon  my  mother’s  breast,  than  live  to  suffer  this!” 

All  the  long  summer  night  Izet-ta  paced  the  floor,  love, 
horror,  and  bitterest  despair  struggling  in  her  ht*art  for 
supremacy.  Scenes  such  as  that  have  made  gentle,  lov¬ 
ing  woman,  the  bitterest,  most  revengeful  of  foes. 

“  Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned.” 

It  was  strange  her  overcharged  young  heart  did  not 
burst  then  and  there.  How  strange  life  should  cling  to 
her  so  tenaciously,  when  she  wanted  so  much  to  die;  she 
told  herself  she  had  not  strength  to  live. 

“  My  poor  little  Ulmont,”  she  said,  laying  her  hot  cheek 
against  baby’s;  “  7tis  well  you  are  a  boy;  I  could  not  have 
left  an  innocent  little  girl  to  have  been  thrown  out  on  the 
mercies  of  relentless  fate.  Which  would  have  been  the 
worst  crime,  to  have  taken  her  with  me  in  her  innocent, 
spotless  babyhood,  or  to  have  realized  she  would  be  buf¬ 
feted  about  by  adversity;  and,  if  too  weak  to  cling  to  life 
and  hope,  would  not  some  cruel,  blighting  hand  have 
struck  her  down  like  a  reed  in  the  storm?  Thank  Heaven, 
you  are  a  boy,  my  sweet  little  one,”  she  murmured.  “I 
am  very  grateful  for  that  boon.  There  is  but  one  course 
left  us,  baby,”  she  whispered.  “We  must  leave  this  place 
at  once ;  we  will  utter  no  word  of  the  terrible  wrong  that 
has  been  done  us !” 

Izetta  had  read  deep,  tragic  sorrows  that  had  come  to 
the  lives  of  women,  but  she  never  remembered  to  have 
read  of  one  as  pitiful  as  her  own. 

How  dared  he  gaze  upon  her  face  or  the  face  of  her  child 
if  he  be  Alderic,  who  had  pledged  himself  so  solemnly  to 
the  dying  to  protect  her? 

If  she  could  only  settle  the  question  of  the  fair  hair  to 
her  satisfaction,  she  would  go  forth  with  her  child  upon 
her  arm  and  confront  him,  flinging  out  her  wrongs  that 
the  whole  wide  world  might  know ;  crying  out : 

“See!  this  is  the  man  who  married  me  but  to  forsake 
me  in  my  greatest  need — and,  lo !  I  find  him  the  husband 
of  another !” 

Ah,  this  was  why  each  caress  he  had  given  Loraine  en¬ 
tered  her  heart  like  a  dagger  thrust. 

She  remembered,  with  a  burning  flush,  how  he  had 
pressed  his  false,  fair,  smiling  lips  to  Loraine’s,  but  yester- 
noon  at  parting,  while  she,  his  wife,  stood  by. 

She  had  heard  of  the  daring  treachery  of  men,  but  this 
exceeded  her  wildest  imagination ;  all  other  crimes  paled 
before  this. 


142  A  FATAL  WOOING 

Izetta  knew  Lorain  e  would  soon  come,  or  send  to  see  if 
she  were  better. 

“She  would  never  be  better  now,”  she  told  herself, 
“  until  she  died.” 

How  could  she  look  into  Loraine’s  fair  face,  knowing  she 
had  stolen  her  husband’s  love  from  her,  the  love  which  had 
been  her  very  life? 

God  help  these  two  fair,  proud  women;  ’twas  hard  to 
judge  between  them;  who  could  tell  which  breast  would 
feel  the  deadly  arrow’s  stroke  the  keener? 

If  this  indeed  be  Alderic,  Izetta  could  but  pity  poor,  de¬ 
ceived  Loraine ;  she  had  not  forgotten  that  ’twas  she  who 
sheltered  her  that  night  from  the  pitiless  storm.  She 
wished  devoutly  she  had  perished  out  m  the  cold  and  the 
snow. 

At  that  moment  she  heard  Loraine’s  step  in  the  corridor ; 
she  knew  full  well  the  dainty  tapping  of  the  little  slippered 
feet. 

“  May  I  come  in,  Izetta,  please?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Izetta,  and  she  was  startled  at  the 
hoarseness  and  hollowness  of  her  own  voice. 

Loraine  tripped  lightly  across  the  room  to  where  she  sat ; 
the  very  room  seemed  brighter  for  her  presence  there. 

“You  are  better  this  morning,  are  you  not,  Izetta?  I 
had  hardly  expected  to  find  you  up  and  dressed  so  early.” 

Loraine  drew  back  with  a  startled  cry  at  the  white, 
haggard  face  raised  up  to  her  own. 

Izetta  did  not  tell  her  she  had  not  laid  her  weary  head 
upon  the  pillow  all  the  long  night  through. 

“  I  was  frightened  about  you  last  night;  but  I  am  still 
more  frightened  about  you  this  morning.  All  the  bloom 
has  left  your  face  •  you  look  like  a  rose  suddenly  withered 
by  an  unexpected  frost.  If  you  have  a  secret  sorrow, 
Izetta,  tell  me,  could  I  lighten  it  in  any  way  for  you?” 

A  sudden  impulse  seized  Izetta  to  unburden  the  terrible 
secret  to  Loraine,  but  it  was  instantly  abandoned.  She 
could  not  bear  that  the  fair  face  of  the  only  being  who  had 
been  kind  and  gentle  toward  her,  should  turn  from  her  in 
horror  and  amazement,  at  the  accusations  she  would  bring 
against  her  husband’s  honor. 

“No,  no,  not  yet,”  Izetta  told  herself ;  “ she  must  think 
first  what  would  be  best.” 

A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  her;  she  would  speak  to 
Loraine  about  her  husband’s  hair ;  the  suspense  of  the  ter¬ 
rible  mystery  was  killing  her. 

“Did  you  tell  me,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,  your  husband  painted 
that  portrait?”  asked  Izetta,  pointing  toward  the  table  on 
which  it  lay. 

“  Yes,”  answered  Loraine,  always  pleased  to  speak  of 


^  FATAL  WOOING. 


14b 


her  husband.  “  He  painted  it  while  he  was  abroad  in 
Italy,  I  believe,  and  quite  from  memory,  too.” 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  face ;  anyone  could  see 
Loraine  was  certainly  the  original. 

“How  strange  it  seems,  Mrs.  Ulvesford,”  said  Izetta, 
in  a  low  voice,  striving  to  appear  calm,  ‘  ‘  that  you  should 
have  preferred  a — a — husband  with  fair  hair  so  like  your 
own.” 

Loraine  laughed  a  little,  jolly  laugh,  replying: 

“That  is  quite  the  amusing  part  of  our  romance.  I  al¬ 
ways  tell  Ulmont  I  could  never  have  fallen  in  love  with  a 
fair-haired  suitor.  Why,  when  we  were  first  engaged,  his 
hair  was  brown,  a  dark,  glossy,  nut-brown.” 

Loraine  did  not  notice  that  the  white,  drooping  face 
turned  away  from  her  was  pale  as  death. 

“  I  have  a  pretty  portrait  of  my  husband,  the  way  he 
used  to  look ;  it  is  quite  amusing  to  see  the  two  pictures 
together,  curiously  alike,  yet  so  unlike.  Come  to  my  room, 
you  shall  see  them.” 

Izetta  followed  her  like  one  in  a  dream. 

“There,”  said  Loraine,  drawing  aside  the  heavy  silken 
curtains,  “  here  they  are  side  by  side.” 

Izetta  raised  her  eyes  to  the  fatal  picture.  No  word  or 
cry  escaped  her;  she  seemed  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

No  mustache  concealed  the  proud  mouth,  whose  every 
curve  she  remembered  so  well,  and  the  dark-brown  hair 
clustered  about  the  brow  of  Alderic. 

She  had  hoped  against  hope,  prayed  blindly  to  Heaven 
that  this  might  be  a  mere  coincidence ;  all  hope  lay  crush¬ 
ed  ;  the  last  strav/  was  broken.  She  was  face  to  face  with 
the  terrible  truth.  Ulmont  Loraine’s  husband  and  Alderic 
were  one. 

In  that  critical  ordeal  the  promise  she  had  given  blind 
Marguirette  came  back  to  her. 

“  If  ever  you  meet  the  one  whom  you  have  called  hus¬ 
band,  promise  me  that  you  will  do  nothing,  say  nothing, 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.” 

Izetta  knew  that  hour  had  now  come  to  her;  she  would 
not  break  the  promise  she  had  given. 

“You  look  so  white  and  wretched.  I  beg  you  to  go  back 
to  your  room  and  lie  down  again ;  you  are  not  yet  rested. 
I  can  get  on  nicely  without  you.  I  am  expecting  mother 
to  drive  over  from  Lorrimer  Hall  to-day,  and  Ulmont  will 
return  by  dusk.  I  shall  fill  in  the  time  very  nicely,”  urged 
Loraine. 

Glad  of  escaping  to  her  own  room  again,  Izetta  consent¬ 
ed  to  rest.  She  wanted  time  to  think. 

“  I  will  take  my  child  away  at  once,”  she  said,  bitterly. 


144 


A  Fatal  wooing. 


“He  shall  never  again  look  upon  the  face  of  the  child  h& 
has  so  cruelly  wronged.” 

How  his  words  taunted  her. 

“  I  should  not  like  to  part  with  the  little  child,”  he  had 
eaid.  “  Indeed,  I  think  him  the  handsomest  little  fellow  1 
have  ever  seen.” 

She  concluded  to  take  little  Ulmont  to  blind  Marguir- 
ette’s  cottage  that  very  night;  then  she  would  come  back 
and  confront  her  guilty  husband. 

A  terrible  idea  occurred  to  her  in  her  bewilderment  and 
agony;  she  was  rendered  desperate  by  the  thought  of  the 
cruel  wrongs  that  had  been  done  her. 

“  Heaven  help  me!”  she  cried  out  bitterly.  “Whatever 
happens,  I  cannot  hold  myself  accountable  for  my  actions; 
my  very  sufferings  cry  out  to  Heaven  for  vengeance  l” 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

FOR  HER  CHILD’S  SAKE. 

Hah  it  not  been  for  her  child,  Izetta  would  have  crept 
silently  away  from  the  home  which  should  have  been  hers 
and  little  Ulmont’s  in  the  dead  of  night. 

“  For  my  child’s  sake  I  must  act  differently,”  she  told 
herself.  A  strong  fear  was  upon  her  that  he  might  attempt 
to  keep  her  child. 

No!  she  must  guard  against  that  at  all  events.  She 
would  take  the  child  at  once  to  Silvernook.  She  hastily 
wrapped  a  thick,  dark  shawl  around  him  and  bore  him 
from  the  room. 

If  she  met  anyone,  ohe  could  say  she  was  taking  baby 
out  for  an  airing  in  the  grounds.  No  one  would  question 
her  except  Loraine ;  she  must  certainly  avoid  meeting  her. 

Izetta  took  the  path  that  led  around  by  the  carriage 
drive.  She  would  certainly  meet  no  one  there,  she  told 
herself. 

She  had  scarcely  proceeded  a  dozen  rods  ere  she  came 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  who  was  leisurely  driving 
her  pony -phaeton  along  the  highway. 

A  dark  frown  crossed  the  lady’s  face  as  her  glance  fell 
upon  the  child;  she  inclined  her  stately  head  in  a  cold, 
formal  bow  in  Izetta’s  direction,  touched  her  pony  lightly 
with  her  whip,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight  beyond  the  lime 
trees. 

Izetta  tremblingly  clasped  little  Ulmont  closer  to  her 
breast,  speeding  quickly  onward. 

She  was  greatly  fatigued  when  she  reached  Silvernook, 
which  was  about  dusk ;  and  her  arm’s  ached  with  Ulmont’s 
weight. 

It  had  been  long  months  since  she  had  trodden  those 


A  FATAL  WOOING .  145 

grassy  lanes ;  how  much  suffering  she  had  passed  through 
since  then? 

Izetta  crept  softly  up  the  walk  that  led  to  the  flute- 
maker’s  door.  A  cheerful,  home  like  picture  met  her 
gaze. 

Marguirette  sat  at  the  spinning-wheel  and  Abel  sat 
near  her,  puffing  great  wreaths  of  smoke  from  his 
stumpy  pipe.  Her  keen  ear  had  detected  cautious,  ap¬ 
proaching  footsteps. 

“There  is  some  one  at  the  door,  Abel,”  she  said;  “see 
who  it  is.” 

Izetta  stole  softly  in,  as  Amy  had  done — the  poor  Amy, 
whom  the  blind,  patient  mother  so  sadly  mourned. 

“Mrs.  Moore,”  she  said,  softly,  “I  have  come  back  to 
you,  but  I  am  not  alone.  I  have  brought  my  little  child.” 

Izetta  never  forgot  the  cheery  welcome  she  received  at 
that  humble  cottage,  a  welcome  that  came  from  the  very 
depths  of  their  hearts,  and,  like  a  weary  child,  she  sobbed 
out  her  sorrows  on  faithful  Marguirette’s  honest  breast. 

She  told  her  of  her  wanderings  and  of  her  persecution ; 
how  she  had  lost  her  way  in  the  terrible  storm  while  on 
her  journey  to  Silvernook,  and  had  found  shelter  at  Ulves- 
ford  Mansion,  but  a  few  miles  distant ;  but  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  divulge  the  terrible  discovery  she  had 
made ;  she  could  not  tell  them  that  at  Ulvesford  Manor  she 
had  found  her  husband.  Ah,  no ;  she  could  not  tell  them 
that! 

“What  is  the  little  one’s  name?”  asked  Marguirette, 
patting  the  little,  curly  head;  “  what  do  you  call  him?” 

“Ulmont,”  said  Izetta,  in  a  voice  she  strove  vainly  to 
steady. 

“Is  he  named  after  the  master  of  Ulvesford  Mansion?” 
questioned  Marguirette. 

“  His  wife  gave  him  that  name,”  answered  Izetta,  in  a 
low,  quivering  voice,  deep  flushes  burning  her  pale  face  at 
the  startling  truth. 

Strange,  she  had  not  thought  of  it  before. 

“  Will  you  keep  little  Ulmont  here  for  a  few  days,  Mrs. 
Moore?  I  will  pay  you  well  for  it.  I  must  return  to  th@ 
manor  to-night. 

“  To-night?”  echoed  both  Abel  and  Marguirette,  in 
astonishment. 

“Yes,”  she  replied,  firmly,  “to-night.” 

“Bless  the  dear  little  fellow,”  said  Marguirette,  crying 
softly  over  him;  “of  course  I  will  keep  him  for  you,  Izetta; 
but  do  not  speak  of  money ;  poor  as  we  are,  I  could  not 
take  it ;  the  happiness  of  havmg  this  little  form  resting 
against  my  lonely  breast,  if  but  for  a  day  or  an  hour,  is  all 
l  ask.” 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  Izetta  induced  the 
aged  couple  to  accept  the  money  of  which  they  stood  in 
such  need. 

Assurance  of  her  keen  displeasure  and  refusal  to  leave 
Ulmont  under  any  other  condition  alone  persuaded  them. 

Marguirette  forbore  from  questioning  Izetta;  she  had 
full  faith  in  the  motive  which  prompted  her  actions. 

“  I  shall  not  remain  here  longer  than  to  night,”  she  said, 
hesitatingly ;  “  then  I  will  tell  you  what  course  I  have  de- 
cided  upon  for  little  Ulmont’s  future  and  my  own.” 

Izetta  resolved  to  take  the  stage  back  to  Boston;  by  so 
doing  she  could  reach  there  a  little  after  dusk;  she  was 
nerving  herself  bravely  for  the  ordeal  of  seeing  Ulmont 
Ulvesford  and  confronting  him  with  his  crime,  of  which 
she  had  been  the  innocent  dupe,  that  very  night. 

The  old  flute-maker  accompanied  her  to  the  cross  roads, 
where  they  found  the  Boston  and  Silvemook  stage  in 
waiting. 

“I  shall  be  sure  to  come  to-morrow  evening,”  said 
Izetta,  leaning  out  of  the  doorway  to  shake  Abel’s  out¬ 
stretched  hand;  “perhaps  a  little  later,  and  alone;  yet  I 
will  be  sure  to  come.” 

The  lumbering  stage-coach  was  barely  lost  to  sight  in 
the  distance,  ere  a  man  emerged  from  the  dense  copse- 
wood  that  skirted  the  roadside. 

There  were  none  near  to  hear  him.  He  laughed  a  low, 
mocking  laugh. 

“Ah,  coquettish  dame  fate,”  he  cried,  “now  you  are 
kind.  You  goad  us  on  to  madness  by  your  frowns,  but 
when  you  smile — ah!  how  you  smile  upon  us  mortals! 
How  little  did  I  think  when  I  rowed  my  boat  to  this  se¬ 
questered  spot  that  I  should  meet  my  pretty  little  runaway 
beauty.  My  sweet  Izetta  will  come  here,  alone,  at  dusk 
to-morrow  eve,  eh?” 

He  laughed  again,  long  and  loud. 

“But  she  shall  not  leave  it  alone,  for  I  will  bear  her 
company !” 

Heath  Hampton,  for  it  was  he,  gazed  at  the  foot  of  the 
alder  bushes  where  he  had  secreted  his  golden  treasures. 

There  was  naught  but  the  night  winds  to  hear  his  plans, 
he  told  himself,  why  should  he  not  speak  out? 

“  Ah!  why  indeed?”  whispered  the  fickle  winds. 

“I  will  have  my  boat  and  a  thick,  dark  cloak  in  waiting 
to-morrow  eve,”  he  soliloquized ;  “  i  will  wrap  it  quickly 
about  her;  struggle  then,  my  sweet,  as  much  as  you  like, 
’twill  be  in  vain.  I  will  be  as  dear  to  your  prayers  and 
entreaties  as  you  were  to  mine.  There  was  a  time  I  might 
have  been  kind ;  but  when  you  scorned  my  love  you  awoke 
§  slumbering  demon  who  will  make  you  his  wife,  curb 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


141 


your  proud  spirit,  tame  your  pride,  bend  your  will  to  sub¬ 
jection,  though  it  breaks  your  heart.  Ay,  and  a  thousand 
hearts  as  well.  By  the  time  the  sun  shall  break  upon  an¬ 
other  morrow,  we  shall  be  far  away  from  the  shores  of 
America,  my  bonny  jewel.  I  risk  much  by  loitering  a 
single  hour  upon  American  soil.  There  do  I  peril  my  very 
liberty  for  you,  my  sweet,  thankless  Izetta!” 

Flattering  himself  that  his  plans  were  laid  well  and 
deeply,  Heath  Hampton  quickly  re-entered  his  boat,  and 
with  long,  sweeping,  energetic  strokes  pushed  out  in  the 
direction  of  Hampton  Place. 

As  the  solemn  darkness  shut  him  out  of  sight,  Vatal,  the 
dwarf,  crept  from  his  place  of  concealment. 

Not  a  word  or  a  motion  had  escaped  his  attention.  He 
deftly  commenced  the  search  for  the  hidden  treasure ;  long 
and  patiently  he  worked ;  the  moon  rose,  its  friendly  rays 
piercing  the  dense  gloom. 

At  last  his  hand  came  in  contact  with  the  coveted  prize ; 
quickly  he  removed  it,  heaping  the  earth  back  into  its 
place. 

He  grasped  the  box  firmly  under  his  arm,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  damp  brow  as  he  stooped  down,  un¬ 
tied  his  own  boat,  and  clambered  hastily  into  it. 

“  Farewell,  cold,  heartless  woman,”  he  cried  shaking  his 
finger  in  the  direction  of  Hampton  Court,  ‘  ‘  farewell,  thou 
meanest  and  most  dastardly  of  sons — I  have  been  your  dupe 
too  long ;  your  sins  shall  recoil  on  your  own  reckless  heads !” 

He  rested  his  arms  thoughtfully  a  moment  on  his  oars. 

A  beautiful,  innocent,  pleading  face  rose  up  before  him. 

“Miss  Rlenzi  was  the  only  one  who  was  ever  kind  to 
me,”  he  muttered. 

Suddenly  he  put  his  hand  up  to  his  brow. 

“  I  have  not  the  courage  to  do  it,”  he  whispered  to  him¬ 
self;  “I  dare  not!” 

He  devoutly  wished  in  his  heart  that  the  dastardly  plan  . 
of  Heath  Hampton  might  be  frustrated  on  the  morrow ; 
then  he  struck  out  down  the  stream  in  quite  an  opposite 
direction  from  Hampton  Place. 

Loraine  Ulvesford  stood  on  the  veranda,  which  opened 
out  upon  a  broad  view  of  that  self-same  river,  watching 
the  gleaming  stars  as  they  mirrored  themselves  in  the  bos¬ 
om  of  the  rippling  water;  the  hours  were  drawing  on; 
dusk  had  settled  into  darkness,  she  was  still  waiting  for 
her  husband. 

She  saw  a  dark  shadow  flit  quickly  down  the  stream 
with  the  tide.  She  little  knew  ’twas  an  evil  omen  crossing 

*1  t  n  W 

her  life. 

It  was  the  boat  of  Yatal,  the  dwarf. 


148 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

GUILTY  OR  INNOCENT. 

It  wanted  a  quarter  to  eight  as  Izetta  noiselessly  ro-at 
tered  her  room. 

No  baby  Ulmont  was  there  to  welcome  her,  yet  she  fell 
she  had  done  wisely  in  secreting  him. 

She  knew  it  was  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  custom  to  repair  te 
the  smoking-room  immediately  after  dining ;  if  not  there 
she  could  with  safety  leave  a  note  there  for  him. 

Izetta  hastily  tore  a  leaf  from  her  memorandum,  writing 
hastily  the  following  lines: 

“  Mr.  Ulmont  Ulvesford, — Have  the  courtesy  to  meet 
me  to-night  in  the  lilac  grove  that  borders  the  park.  I  have 
the  right  to  demand  this  interview,  which  I  could  have 
forced  upon  you  without  warning  had  I  so  chosen,  but 
scorned  to  do.  I  shall  await  you  there  immediately 
your  receipt  of  this,  which  will  probably  be  between 
and  nine.  Izetta  Eo 

God  pity  her!  how  many  times  she  had  gone  over  in  her 
mind  what  her  meeting  with  Alderic  would  be  like;  how 
she  should  tell  him  of  her  deep,  deathless  love  which  had 
clung  to  him  through  all ;  how  she  would  lay  her  tired  head 
upon  his  shoulder  and  whisper  to  him  of  another  who 
claimed  his  iove,  her  precious  little  Ulmont— their  child! 

All  that  bright  dream  was  over  now ;  its  ruins  lay  scat¬ 
tered  at  her  feet.  She  could  breathe  no  word  of  the  love 
which  consumed  her.  She  must  hear  his  voice  and  know 
another  claimed  him. 

It  was  strange  that  through  all  she  still  clung  to  the  be¬ 
lief  that  her  marriage  was  legal. 

“If  not,  I  shall  hear  it  frorp  his  own  lips,’’  she  whispered, 
falteringly. 

If  so  a  great  wrong  had  been  done  her,  she  believed  her 
heart  would  break  then  and  there. 

It  did  not  matter  much  what  happened  after  that;  she 
could  not  rest  nor  breathe  while  even  the  faintest  shadow 
hovered  over  the  fair  name  of  her  innocent  child.  She  for¬ 
got  all  else  in  the  dark  sorrows  of  the  outraged  wife  and 
mother. 

The  lights  were  not  lit  in  either  library  or  smoking-room ; 
the  long,  French  windows  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  the 
flickering  moonbeams  bathed  each  room  in  its  pale,  white 
light. 

Izetta  nervously  entered  the  library,  her  dark  eyes  scan¬ 
ning  the  deep,  shadowy  corners  with  a  hurried  glance. 

It  seemed  quite  deserted  sa,ve  by  her  own  presence, 


upon 

eight 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


She  could  hear  Ulmont  and  Loraine’s  laughter  out  on  the 
lawn ;  he  was  evidently  not  in  the  smoking-room. 

She  glided  down  the  long  drawing-room  with  a  beating 
heart.  So  intense  was  her  excitement  her  dress  brushed 
the  low,  cushioned  rocker  in  which  Mrs.  Lorrimer  was  re¬ 
clining;  but  Izetta  did  not  see  her.  The  lady  turned  her 
head  slightly. 

“  Ah!”  she  muttered,  quite  under  her  breath,  “  Mrs.  Ross 
again !” 


She  bit  her  lip  with  vexation,  as  she  wished  devoutly  that 
the  mother  and  child  were  away  from  Ulvesford  Manor 
with  their  dark,  sparkling,  foreign  faces. 

“  This  is  the  creature  Loraine  tells  me  is  lying  danger¬ 
ously  ill  in  her  room,  when  I  have  just  met  her  stealing 
stealthily  down  the  carriage  drive;  all  the  long  day  she 
does  not  make  her  appearance,  and  now  in  the  darkness  of 
night  she  steals  down  to  the  library.  What  does  she  here, 
I  wonder?” 

She  fairly  held  her  breath  upon  seeing  Izetta  proceed 
directly  toward  the  smoking-room.  The  door  stood  open 
and  she  fearlessly  entered. 

From  the  reflection  in  an  opposite  mirror  Mrs.  Lorrimer 
saw  her  draw  from  her  bosom  a  white  envelope  which  she 
placed  beside  the  match-safe  on  the  mantel,  then  turned, 
with  the  fleetness  of  a  startled  deer,  disappearing  through 
the  long,  open  window  and  down  the  lilac  path  in  the 
moonlight. 

A  strange  light  gleamed  in  Mrs.  Lorrimer’s  eyes. 

“I  must  breathe  no  word  of  this  to  my  poor  Loraine,,;/ 
she  thought  ;  “  I  must  act  upon  my  own  judgment.” 

Mrs.  Lorrimer  was  a  proud  and  conscientious  lady,  who 
would  have  scorned  to  do  a  mean  act ;  yet  for  the  sake  of 
her  idolized  Loraine  she  told  herself  she  must  know  the  con¬ 
tents  of  the  letter  which  had  been  secretly  conveyed  to  her 
daughter’s  husband  under  cover  of  night;  she  felt  fuTf 
justified  in  acquainting  herself  with  its  contents. 

There  are  women  who  would  have  raged  and  stormed 
nad  they  read  the  contents  of  that  note ;  she  did  nothing  of 
the  kind ;  for  an  instant  she  held  it  over  the  gas  jet. 

“No,”  she  said,  crushing  the  letter  in  her  hand,  “  I  will 
not  do  that.  I  will  go  myself  and  confront  her.  I  will 
wring  from  her  lips  the  secret  she  holds,  force  her  to  tell 
by  what  right  she  dares  demand  an  interview  with  the 
husband  of  Loraine.” 

She  threw  a  dark  shawl  quickly  over  her  head,  crushing 
the  letter  in  her  tight  grasp  as  though  it  were  the  life  of 
the  hapless  girl  whom  she  was  going  forth  to  meet. 

At  each  step  she  took  her  fierce  fury  fanned  itself  into 


150 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


new  flame.  There  was  little  mercy  in  the  mother’s  heart 
when  she  thought  of  her  trusting  Loraine. 

As  the  lioness,  the  tigress,  and  the  panther  are  aroused 
when  danger  threatens  their  young,  a  terrible  fury  was 
lashing  the  heart  of  Loraines  mother  as  she  hurriedly 
approached  the  lilac  path,  where  she  knew  she  should  find 
Izetta  Ross. 

As  Izetta  heard  the  hurried  footsteps,  her  heart  beat 
cruelly ;  they  stopped  suddenly  before  her. 

Izetta  stood  quite  still,  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes 
downcast,  the  tall  lilac  bushes  tossing  their  fragrant,  pur¬ 
ple  plumes  above  her  dark,  flowing  hair. 

She  had  hoped  Alderic,  as  she  still  called  him  in  her 
thoughts,  would  break  the  torturous,  embarrassing  si¬ 
lence. 

Slowly  she  raised  her  dark  eyes,  not  to  the  face  of 
Alderic,  but  to  the  stormy,  wrathful  face  of  Mrs.  Lor- 
rimer. 

The  faint  cry  died  away  on  her  lips,  making  no  sound. 

“  I  flatter  myself  I  have  disturbed  what  you  intended  to 
be  a  very  charming  tete-a-tete ,  Mrs.  Ross.  Perhaps  it  will 
suprise  you  to  learn  that  I  saw  you  place  this  letter  in  the 
smoking-room.  We  will  waive  all  question  as  to  my 
actions  m  regard  to  it  and  come  to  the  point  at  once.  I  de¬ 
mand  to  know  by  what  right  you  solicit  this  secret  inter¬ 
view  with  Ulmont  Ulvesford.  I  have  said  to  Loraine,  be¬ 
ware  lest  the  serpent,  whom  you  have  warmed  and  fed, 
does  not  turn  upon  the  hand  that  gave  it  shelter.  She  gave 
you  life,  and  you,  false-hearted  woman,  would  stab  her 
heart  with  a  blow  worse  than  death  itself !” 

For  a  moment,  deep,  crimson  flushes  came  and  went 
over  Izetta’s  fair  face ;  then  she  drew  herself  up  proudly  to 
her  full  height. 

“  I  cannot  tell  you,  madam — I  dare  not,”  she  replied. 

“Cannot  and  dare  not!  Those  are  strong  words,”  re¬ 
torted  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  ironically.  “I  shall  know  what 
secret  intrigue  you  are  attempting,  vile  woman,  if  I  have 
to  wring  it  from  your  false  lips !” 

“  Spare  me,  oh,  spare  me  your  reproaches,  madam,”  mur¬ 
mured  Izetta,  tearfully,  her  white  hands  working  convul¬ 
sively;  “I  beseech  you,  by  the  love  you  bear  Loraine,  do 
not  torture  the  terrible  secret  from  me  1” 

“  Do  you  know  what  I  fully  intend  to  do?  I  shall  have 
you  prosecuted  to  the  full  extent  of  the  law  for  your  vile 
scheme !” 

Izetta  raised  her  hand  supplicatingly. 

“Mercy,  madam,”  she  whispered,  “I  beg  of  you  to 
spare  me !” 

“  Mercy,”  sneered  the  irate  mother ;  ‘  ‘  what  mercy  would 


fA  FATAL  WOOING, 


151 


you  show  my  poor  Loraine,  were  it  in  vour  power?  You 
are  a  scheming  adventuress;  cunningly  you  laid  your 
plans  to  gain  an  entrance  into  this  home !” 

“As  Heaven  is  my  judge,  madam,  I - ” 

“Stop,”  commanded  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  sternly,  “it  is  not 
for  such  as  you  to  call  upon  Heaven  to  hear  you.” 

“Madam,"”  responded  Izetta,  sadly,  “believe  me,  had  I 
known  what  I  now  know,  I  should  have  flung  myself  into 
the  depths  of  yonder  silent  river  rather  than  cross  this 
threshold.” 

The  cold,  taunting  laugh  of  Mrs.  Lorrimer  stung  her  al¬ 
most  to  madness  as  she  continued : 

“  Why  did  you  not  add — you  did  not  dream  IJlmont  Ul- 
vesford  had  such  a  charming  young  wife?” 

“  God  help  me,  no,  I  did  not  know  that,”  moaned 
Izetta. 

“Yet,  with  your  false  arts,  you  would  seek  to  win  him 
from  her,”  cried  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  hoarsely. 

“No,”  answered  Izetta,  “I  never  did  that,  madam.  I — 

“Well?”  questioned  her  companion,  grimly. 

“  I  avoided  him,”  responded  Izetta. 

Again  Mrs.  Lorrimer  laughed,  that  peculiar,  taunting 
laugh,  pointing  grimly  to  the  note  she  held  crushed  in  her 
hand. 

“This  certainly  looks  like  it,”  she  said. 

“I  wanted  to  look  upon  his  face  just  once,  madam,”  she 
said,  brokenly;  “then  I  would  be  content  to  go  away, 
breathing  no  word,  and  die.  ” 

The  woful  agony  in  the  young  voice  did  not  reach  the 
heart  of  the  impassioned  mother. 

“Speak,  girl!”  cried  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  grasping  Izetta 
firmly,  cruelly,  by  both  shoulders.  “What  is  Ulmont  Ul- 
vesford  to  you?”  * 

“  I  cannot  tell  you— I  must  not  for  Loraine’s  sake.” 

“  Do  not  mention  my  pure  Loraine!”  shrieked  the  irate 
mother;  “  don’t  dare  to  mention  her,  I  say.  Once  again  I 
ask  you  to  divulge  this  secret.” 

“And  I  repeat  I  cannot,”  said  Izetta,  in  a  low,  trem¬ 
bling  voice. 

The  sorrow  of  that  beautiful,  drooping  face  was  lost  in 
the  intense  anger  of  Mrs.  Lorrimer’s  heart. 

“I  say  I  shall  know  what  all  this  means,  miss  or  Mrs. 
— Heaven  best  knows  which  of  the  two  names  you  have  the 
right  to  bear.” 

“Yes!”  cried  Izetta,  drawing  herself  up  proudly,  and 
answering  in  clear,  ringing  tones,  1  ‘  Heaven  does  know  1  I 
am  an  honorable  wife  1” 


m 


A  NATAL  WOOING. 


“A  precious  example  of  an  honorable  wife,  forsooth, 
making  appointments  with  other  ladies’  husbands !” 

“  Madam !”  cried  Izetta,  hoarsely,  “if  you  will  hear,  if 
you  will  goad  me  on  to  madness,  know,  then,  why  I  have 
sought  this  interview  with  Ulmont  Ulvesford.”  Her  voice 
rang  out  in  a  sharp,  agonizing  cry.  “  Hear  me,  Mrs.  Lor- 
rimer!”  she  cried,  “and  may  God  in  Heaven  judge  if  I 
speak  falsely  1  Ulmont  Ulvesford  is  my  husband.” 


'  CHAPTER  XXXV. 

AM  A  LAWFUL  WIFE. 

“  Are  you  mad  I”  cried  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  recoiling  as  though 
a  sudden  blow  had  been  struck  her. 

“ No,”  answered  Izetta,  solemnly,  “I  am  not  mad,  I  have 
spoken  the  solemn  truth,  I  am  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  lawful 
wife.” 

“  ’Tis  false !”  shrieked  Mrs.  Lorrimer.  “  If  an  angel  cried 
it,  trumpefc-tongued,  I  would  not  believe  it.  You  have  for¬ 
gotten,  girl,  that  you  are  speaking  of — my  daughter’s  hus¬ 
band.” 

“Hear  me,  Mrs.  Lorrimer,”  said  Izetta,  in  a  clear,  calm 
voice.  “A  year  ago  Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  I  crossed ‘from 
Italy  in  the  same  steamer,  the  White  Cresson.  One  mid¬ 
night,  as  we  neared  the  American  port,  my  grandfather 
fell  back  in  my  arms  in  the  throes  of  death.  A  young  man 
stood  near  us  on  the  deck  leaning  over  the  rails ;  poor  grand¬ 
father  beckoned  him  to  us  and  whispered  that  he  was  dy¬ 
ing.  ‘  I  will  soon  be  gone,  ’  he  cried,  ‘  and  my  child  will  be 
alone.  I  cannot  die  and  leave  her  unprotected ;  will  you 
protect  my  little  orphan  child?’  The  young  man  promised. 
That  man  was  Ulmont  Ulvesford.  My  grandfather  died 
that  night,  and  I  was  left  alone — alone  but  for  Ulmont  Ul¬ 
vesford,  or  Alderic  Ross,  as  he  falsely  called  himself,” 

Like  one  fascinated,  Mrs.  Lorrimer ’s  intense  gaze  never 
left  her  face  during  the  brief  recital;  the  very  power  of 
speech  seemed  to  leave  her. 

“I  cannot  tell  you  what  impulse  prompted  him;  he  said 
I  should  marry  him,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  10th  of  May, 
an  aged  pastor  married  us  on  the  silent  ocean,  in  the  moon' 
light,  beneath  the  gaze  of  the  glimmering  stars  and  listen¬ 
ing  angels,  married  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  or  Alderic  Ross  and 
me.” 

“The  10th  of  May,”  whispered  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  In  an 
awful  voice :  for  one  brief  instant  she  was  tempted  to  believe 
her,  there  was  a  world  of  truth  in  the  clear,  noble  voice, 
and  the  pale,  calm  face  turned  unflinchingly  toward  her 
own  in  the  moonlight ;  the  next  instant  she  had  recovered 
herself. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


153 


To  say  I  am  amazed  at  your  mad  audacity  in  concoct¬ 
ing  such  a  wild  tale,  but  faintly  expresses  my  indignation,” 
cried  the  exasperated  mother,  never  losing  her  tight  hold 
on  the  girl’s  arm.  “I  wonder  I  do  not  strike  you  down  at 
my  feet.” 

‘  ‘  Had  it  not  been  for  my  child’s  sake  I  would  never  have 
spoken ;  I  would  have  held  the  bitter  secret  all  my  whole 
life  through,”  cried  Izetta,  vehemently. 

“You  are  a  daring  woman,”  replied  Mrs.  Lorrimer, 
stormily.  “  Do  you  think  the  world  would  credit  even  for 
an  instant  your  fanciful  story?  Do  you  see  that  path?”  she 
added;  “take  it  and  begone,  never  cross  this  threshold 
again,  or  I  will  have  you  thrown  into  prison !  It  is  worse 
than  folly  to  repeat  this  wild  tale  elsewhere,”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  mockingly.  “  The  world  would  ask  you  to  furnish 
proofs.  Could  you  furnish  the  slightest  proofs  to  substan¬ 
tiate  such  a  base  fabrication?” 

Izetta  staggered  back  against  the  lilac  branches  with  a 
low  cry,  which  went  up  to  Heaven  from  her  white  lips. 

“  Where  are  your  proofs?”  demanded  Loraine’s  mother, 
exultantly. 

Heaven  help  her,  she  had  none.  It  was  one  of  the 
cruelest  sights  which  could  have  been  imagined  upon  which 
the  great  stars  pityingly  gazed ;  the  white,  startled  face  of 
the  wronged  young  wife,  and  the  haughty,  experienced, 
worldly  woman  who  held  her  at  bay,  turning  her  own 
weapon  of  safeguard  against  her. 

“  Droof,”  Izetta  had  never  once  given  it  a  thought. 

“You  have  certainly  lost  your  reason,”  continued  Mrs. 
Lorrimer,  grimly,  ‘  ‘  in  supposing  for  an  instant  that  a  man 
would  be  so  insane  as  to  bring  two  wives  under  one  roof. 
Why,  he  never  saw  you  before  that  stormy  Christmas  eve 
when  you  found  shelter  here.  You  were  strangers.  Had 
he  been  what  you  claim,  you  would  have  cried  out,  ‘see, 
this  is  the  husband  who  deserted  me!’  you  did  nothing  of 
the  kind;  you  wound  yourself  into  the  wife’s  heart,  to 
learn  more  of  the  husband !” 

“I — I — did  not  know  Aide — ,  Mr.  Ulvesford  then,” gasp¬ 
ed  Izetta. 

“You  do  not  adhere  to  your  story,  first  you  claim  him  as 
your  husband,  now  you  admit  you  did  not  know  him,” 
said  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  sarcastically,  eying  the  young  girl 
crouching  before  her,  half  leaning  against  the  lilac  bushes, 
stunned  by  her  cruel  words. 

“  Aldenc’s — Mr.  Ulvesford’s  hair  was  dark  then,  and  he 
wore  no  mustache,”  faltered  Izetta. 

Had  a  thunderbolt  suddenly  fallen  from  a  clear  sky, 
Mrs.  Lorrimer  could  not  have  been  more  astounded,  tne 
blood  receded  from  her  face,  leaving  it  deadly  pale. 


154 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


t 


With  the  rapidity  of  lightning  something  akin  to  tjb.e 
truth  flashed  upon  her. 

She  remembered  the  dark-brown  curls  had  been  shorn  at 
the  time  of  the  almost  fatal  accident,  and  the  fair  hair 
changed  him  wonderfully;  then,  most  pitiful  of  .all,  she 
remembered  that  that  accident  had  left  a  blank  in  the  mind 
of  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  the  incidents  of  that  past  he  had  so 
fruitlessly  endeavored  to  recall. 

“Great  God  I”  she  muttered,  “can  this  be  the  missing 
link?  No,”  she  cried,  vehemently,  “  Heaven  is  not  so  un¬ 
kind  to  my  poor  Loraine.” 

A  great  spasm  of  pain  shot  through  her  as  she  turned  to 
Izetta  in  her  woe.  She  forgot  her  anger,  pride,  everything 
in  her  agonized  fear  for  Loraine ;  she  only  remembered  she 
was  a  mother  standing  by,  hearing  her  darling  Loraine’s 
honor  called  in  jeopardy. 

There  was  solemn  truth  depicted  in  Izetta’s  face;  yet 
how  could  she  believe  her?  it  was  beyond  human  nature. 

She  put  out  her  hands  in  a  groping  way,  and  would  have 
fallen  had  Izetta  not  caught  her  in  her  arms. 

Izetta  knew  she  was  her  most  bitter  foe,  yet  she  felt  the 
deepest  pity  for  the  mother’s  woe. 

That  mother  was  blindly  praying  that  Loraine  might 
not  be  sacrificed,  come  what  might,  she  would  do  valiant 
battle  for  the  sake  of  her  child. 

“No  one  would  believe  you,”  she  cried  out  sharply. 
“  The  whole  world  would  say  it  was  false;  you  have  no 
proofs.  I  will  compromise  with  you,  leave  America  with 
your  child  at  once,  and  I  will  give  you  half  my  wealth.  I 
will  provide  handsomely  for  your  little  child ;  when  I  die 
he  shall  be  the  heir  of  the  Lorrimer  estates.  I  will  gladly, 
freely,  give  it,  only  go  away.  If  you  breathe  one  word  of 
this  you  will  break  Loraine’s  heart.  She  has  been  little  less 
than  an  angel  to  you ;  ’twas  she  who  rescued  you  from  the 
storm  in  which  you  would  have  perished  but  for  her.  I  am 
a  proud  old  woman,”  she  cried,  “but  see,  I  kneel  in  the 
dust  at  your  feet,  I  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment,  I  beg 
you  to  leave  Loraine  in  peace !” 

Izetta’s  face  was  white  as  marble  as  she  raised  the  kneeL 
ing,  trembling,  sorrow-stricken  mother  to  her  feet. 

“  If  it  was  but  for  my  own  sake  I  would  not  hesitate  for 
an  instant,  Mrs.  Lorrimer,”  she  said.  “I  would  sooner 
die  than  breathe  one  word  of  this  terrible  secret.  My  lit¬ 
tle  child’s  honor,  alone,  demands  that  I  should  speak.” 

‘  ‘  God  would  bless  and  time  immortalize  you  if  you 
would  make  a  sacrifice  for  her  who  succored  you  in  your 
sorest  need.  You  ar^  a  noble  woman,  will  you  make  it?” 
groaned  the  unhappy  mother.  “Your  child  is  a  boy,  his 
life  is  all  before  him.  My  child  is  a  fair,  proud  woman,  in 


A  FATAL  WOOING 


155 


the  zenith  of  her  beauty,  her  love,  and  all  that  makes  life 
worth  the  living.  No  stain  ever  crossed  her  fair  name ;  her 
honor  is  a  pearl  beyond  price.  Oh,  think,  Mrs.  Ross,  with 
a  man  the  world  holds  life  in  a  different  light ;  think, 
Izetta,  think,  while  I  kneel  and  implore  you  in  the  dust  at 
your  feet.  ” 

They  could  hear  Loraine’s  sivery  laughter  in  the  dis¬ 
tance. 

“See  how  happy  my  child  is,”  cried  the  frenzied  mother. 
“  Could  you  strike  a  dagger  into  her  heart  while  she  gazed 
into  your  eyes  with  her  gay,  happy  smile ;  it  would  be 
kinder  far  to  do  that  than  to  question  her  right  to  her  hus¬ 
band’s  love;  he  is  her  very  life !” 

“Yet  he  is  my  husband,”  cried  Izetta. 

“Let  God  judge  between  you  in  Heaven,”  cried  the 
unhappy  mother.  “Leave  him  in  peace  to  Loraine  on 
earth !” 

A  deep,  bitter  groan  broke  the  terrible  silence  that  fell 
between  them;  the  drooping  lilac  branches  were  parted 
slowly  asunder,  and  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  with  a  face  pale  as 
marble,  on  which  the  veins  stood  out  like  knotted  cords, 
hurriedly  stepped  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

“she  has  no  proof.” 

“  Ulmont  !”  cried  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  springing  forward,  “  tell 
me  who  is  this  woman,”  pointing  to  Izetta. 

“  Mother,”  he  cried,  “  rise  from  your  knees.  I - ” 

As  she  looked  up  into  his  haggard  face,  she  read  some¬ 
thing  there  that  made  her  cry  out  with  the  sharpest 
agony. 

In  an  awful  silence  that  seemed  the  length  of  eternity, 
Ulmont  Ulvesford  turned  to  Izetta  and  for  one  brief  instant 
their  eyes  met.  He  spoke  no  word  to  Izetta ;  he  addressed 
himself  to  the  hapless,  prostrate  mother ;  his  head  fell  on 
his  breast  and  in  his  averted  eyes  the  poor  mother  read  her 
child’s  doom,  ere  the  white  lips  answered,  slowly : 

“  May  God  help  my  poor  Loraine,  she  speaks  the  truth !” 

“You  dare  not  tell  me  you  are  married  to  this  woman!” 
shrieked  Mrs.  Lorrimer,  pointing  to  Izetta,  who  stood  up 
proudly  before  them,  calm  as  a  marble  statue. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  bowed  his  head,  he  could  find  no 
words  in  which  to  answer  her. 

“It  is  not  true!”  she  cried,  wildly;  “it  is  a  cruel  jest; 
you  are  Loraine’s  husband,  my  pretty,  innocent  darling.” 

Ulmont  bared  his  head  to  the  cool  winds  of  Heaven, 
great  drops  of  ^perspiration  rolled  do  wn  his  cheeks,  the 
veins  twitched  convulsively. 


156 


A  FATAL  WOOING , 


“Hear  but  a  word  in  my  defense,”  he  cried.  “God 
knows  I  was  innocent.  My  God !  I  remember  all  blit  too 
plainly  now.  I  have  found  the  missing  link.  Stop,”  he 
commanded,  ‘  ‘  hear  me  out.  I  married  her  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment ;  a  mad  vow  urged  by  the  dying  to  protect 
her,  but  one  way  occurred  to  me,  I  married  her,  I  sent  my 
wi — ,  I  sent  her  to  my  old  nurse  in  Silvernook  when  I  re¬ 
ceived  the  telegram  that  my  mother  was  dying.  I  intended 
to  crave  Loraine’s  pardon ;  I  knew  she  would  forgive  my 
rashness,  you  know  the  rest ;  the  accident  drove  that  past 
entirely  from  my  memory.  I  never  knew,  God  help  me, 
when  I  led  your  daughter  to  the  altar,  that  I  had  a  living 
wife,  but  swiftly  as  memory  fled  it  returned  when  I  heard 
the  accusation  in  a  voice  that  pierced  the  dimness  of  the 
past,  crying  out:  ‘Ulmont  Ulvesford  is  my  husband!’  I 
gave  the  name  Alderic  Ross  in  bitter  sport.  I  meant  when 
we  reached  Boston  to  tell  her  I  was  Ulmont  Ulvesford ;  the 
consequences  have  recoiled  upon  my  own  head.  Although 
innocent  I  am  guilty  of  a  crime  most  horrible.”  He  spoke 
the  words  rapidly,  vehemently,  never  once  turning  toward 
the  silent  figure  at  his  right,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast  like  one  awaiting  his  doom. 

“  Ulmont!”  cried  the  mother,  clinging  to  the  last  hope, 
crouching  at  his  feet,  and  covering  his  hands  with  passion¬ 
ate  tears,  ‘  ‘  this  girl  has  no  proof  of  this,  no  proof  whatever ; 
for  Loraine’s  sake,  your  golden-haired  young  wife,  who 
loves  you  so,  deny  it,  say  that  she  is  mad,  ’tis  a  scheming 
plot  to  ruin  you.  Loraine  will  never  know;  the  bitter 
truth  would  kill  her.  You  might  say  she  died  of  a  broken- 
heart,  but  the  angels  in  Heaven  would  cry  out  you  mur¬ 
dered  her ! 

“Ulmont,  listen  to  my  prayer,”  she  wailed;  “send  this 
woman  away — we  will  bury  the  terrible  secret,  the  world 
shall  never  know — defy  her  to  do  her  worst,  remember  she 
is  powerless,  she  has  no  proof !” 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  raised  his  eyes  to  Izetta’s  face;  a  bit¬ 
ter  war  was  raging  in  his  soul,  such  as  words  are  power¬ 
less  to  express. 

“I  have  asked  no  mercy  for  myself,”  said  Izetta,  in  a 
clear,  ringing  voice — “  but  for  the  honor  of  our  child.” 

Those  words  cut  him  keenly;  he  did  not  turn  to  his 
wronged  young  wife,  and  hold  out  his  hands  to  her;  he 
turned  from  her  with  a  bitter  groan,  the  name  Loraine  on 
his  lips. 

Loraine — his  sweet,  haughty,  beautiful  Loraine,  who 
loved  him  so  well,  whose  life  Ee  had  so  cruelly  blighted  by 
one  rash  act.  Never  did  mortal  man  waver  between 
such  conflicting  doubts. 

Igetta  had  no  proofs  of  that  fatal  marriage ;  the  rector 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


Was  dead  who  married  them.  Should  he  cry  out  it  was 
all  false,  and  with  Loraine  clinging  to  his  breast,  deiy  her 
to  the  bitter  end. 

“  Choose  between  them,”  cried  the  frantic  mother. 

Like  a  beautiful  marble  statue  Izetta  stood  before  him, 
yet  she  spoke  no  word. 

“My  God!”  he  groaned,  how  can  I  ever  again  feel  the 
clinging  arm  of  Loraine  about  my  neck,  her  golden  head 
upon  my  breast,  hear  her  whisper  ‘my  husband,’  and 
know  she  is  not  my  lawful  wife,  before  God  and  man! 
Heaven  knows  I  meant  well,  but  fate  has  conspired  against 
me.  Was  ever  man  placed  in  such  a  terrible  position?”  he 
groaned,  “I  know  not  which  way  to  turn.” 

“  Turn  to  Loraine,  she  will  never  know,”  sobbed  the 
wretched  mother. 

“It  would  be  a  sin,  now,”  he  cried  out,  sharply,  “you 
have  forgotten  she  is  not  my  wife.” 

His  honor  was  his  shield. 

“Yet  I  cannot  tell  my  pure  Loraine  of  the  great  wrong 
I  have  unconsciously  done  her,”  he  cried  out,  “she  would 
die  then  and  there  at  my  feet.  Give  me  time  to  think,”  he 
cried,  hoarsely. 

“  Go  to  Loraine,”  pleaded  the  mother.  She  knew  if  he 
were  to  go  to  Loraine  just  then  he  would  clasp  her  to  his 
heart  and  defy  the  whole  world  to  part  them. 

“  No,  no,”  he  groaned,  “I  cannot,  honor  forbids,  it  would 
unman  me.  I  need  all  my  strength.” 

Then  he  turned  to  Izetta,  avoiding  her  clear,  calm  eyes 
as  he  spoke. 

“  Please  leave  me  to  myself  awhile.  I  must  have  time 
to  consider.” 

With  a  haughty  bow  she  turned  from  him. 

“I  have  one  favor  to  ask,”  he  said,  “will  you  send  our 
little  child  to  me  here?” 

“No;  a  thousand  times  no !”  cried  Izetta,  passionately; 
“  the  fafher  who  could  spurn  from  him  the  wronged  wife 
and  mother,  shall  not  look  upon  the  innocent  face  of  her 
child.  I  shall  not  enter  your  door  again,  nor  break  your 
bread.  I  am  going  to  the  home  of  Abel  Moore,  the  flute- 
maker  of  Silvernook ;  send  me  word  there  what  you  intend 
to  do.” 

She  turned  with  the  imperial  grace  of  a  queen ;  turned 
from  the  husband  whom  she  so  madly  loved  even  yet,  and 
glided  swiftly  down  the  lilac-bordered  path  in  the  moon¬ 
light  out  of  their  sight,  leaving  Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  the 
mother  of  Loraine  with  a  nameless  anguish  on  their  faces, 
gazing  into  each  other’s  eyes  under  the  star-spangled 
heavens  as  they  listened  to  the  merry  laughter  of  Loraine 
as  it  floated  out  to  them  from  the  rose-bordered  porch. 


158 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


4 


/ 

Loraine,  or  Xzetta  and  her  child.  '  '  > 

God  help  him  to  choose  between  them! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

SWISS  OFFICERS. 

All  that  long  night  Ulmont  Ulvesford  paced  the  library 
fighting  with  honor,  love,  truth,  and  loyalty,  the  fiercest 
battle  mortal  had  ever  been  called  upon  to  face. 

There  were  no  words  to  express  the  horror  with  which 
he  gazed  upon  the  bitter  fruit  of  that  fatal  wooing;  uncon¬ 
sciously  he  had  blighted  the  lives  of  two  women — one  he 
loved  with  all  his  soul,  sweet,  trusting  Loraine ;  the  other 
was  his  wronged  young  wife,  whom  he  had  sworn  to  the 
dying  to  protect.  How  could  he  choose  between  them? 

That  night  many  a  silver  thread  found  its  way  into  his 
fair,  clustering  hair.  Twice  Loraine  had  sent  for  him. 

“Say  I  am  busy  with  important  letters,  Zack,”  he  said 
to  the  servant  who  delivered  the  message. 

The  man  looked  in  wonder  at  the  haggard  face  of  his 
young  master,  as  he  closed  the  door  softly  after  him. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  resumed  his  walk  face  to  face  with 
the  horrible  crime  which  shadowed  his  life.  Again  the 
servant  tapped  gently  at  the  door. 

“  If  you  please,  sir,  Mrs.  Ulvesford  says  her  head  aches, 
and  she  is  waiting  for  you.” 

A  sudden  impulse  swept  over  Ulmont  to  go  to  her;  but 
he  checked  it  quickly. 

“  No,”  he  muttered;  “  there  must  be  no  wavering  in  the 
path  of  duty.  Say  I  cannot  come,  I  am  very  busy,  she 
need  not  wait  for  me,”  he  commanded,  wearily;  “do  not 
disturb  me  again.” 

The  man  walked  away  wondering  what  had  come  over 
the  young  master. 

Toward  morning  the  library  bell  rang  furiously. 

“Zack,”  he  said,  “I  want  you  to  pack  my  valise  and 
your  own  immediately ;  order  the  carriage  to  be  in  readi¬ 
ness  at  the  door  within  half  an  hour.  You  have  been  a 
tried  and  trusted  servant ;  I  command  you  to  let  no  one 
know  of  this  matter:  not  even  my  wi — not  even  Mrs. 
Ulvesford.” 

“What,  sir!”  cried  Zack,- aghast,  scarcel/* believing  he 
had  heard  aright;  “not  even  Mrs.  Ulvesford?” 

Ulmont  turned  away  his  face  with  a  bitter  groan. 

“  Sir,”  said  the  old  servant,  gravely,  “  I’ve  been  here  long 
years — ay,  sir,  years  before  you  were  born,  and  I  make 
bold  this  once  to  speak  my  mind.  I  have  known  every 
sorrow  that  has  come  upon  the  people  of  Ulvesford,  but  I 
do  not  know  yours.  I  can  see  by  your  face  it  is  no  small 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


1M 

<me;  but  I 'say  this,  sir,  if  you  leave  your  young  wife  in 
this  way,  without  one  word,  her  heart  will  break.  Master, 
do  go  to  her ;  she  was  quite  ill  when  I  left  her ;  her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  eyes  burned  like  stars.” 

‘ ‘  Zack,  Zack,”  cried  Ulmont,  distractedly;  “you  must 
not  tempt  me  too !  I  must  act  like  a  man  of  honor.  I 
have  never  flinched  from  a  terrible  ordeal — I  must  not 
now.  You  and  I  are  going  away,  Zack ;  I  am  driven  from 
here  by  a  terrible  crime.  I  cannot  tell  you  more.  Pack 
the  valises  quickly,  bring  the  carriage  around  by  the  park 
gate;  let  me  know  at  once  when  all  is  in  readiness. 

The  preparations  were  soon  completed. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  leaned  his  head  wearily  against  the 
mantel,  gazing  round  the  room  for  the  last  time. 

“Better  Loraine  should  learn  to  despise  me,”  he  sighed, 
“than  sully  for  one  instant  her  spotless  honor.” 

He  dared  not  think  of  Izetta. 

“  No,  no — I  must  leave  home  at  once  and  forever.  I  shall 
never  look  upon  their  faces  more.” 

A  great  yearning  came  over  him  to  see  his  child,  but  the 
thought  he  put  quickly  from  him. 

He  heard  the  trampling  of  feet  on  the  thick  carpets  of 
Loraine’s  apartments  overhead,  yet  he  quite  forgot  to  think 
it  an  unusual  occurrence  at  the  dead  of  night. 

His  overcoat  lay  on  his  arm  and  his  valise  at  his  feet ; 
he  was  impatient  at  the  unaccountable  delay ;  he  had  in¬ 
tended  to  be  faraway  from  Boston  when  daylight  overtook 
him. 

The  carriage  stood  in  waiting  at  the  park  gate.  Zack 
had  scarcely  stored  his  luggage  under  the  seat  when  a 
heavy  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  foreign  voice 
asked  * 

‘  ‘  Is  this  Ulvesford  Place  ?” 

Too  astounded  to  speak,  Zack  nodded  his  head. 

“Is  your  master  within?” 

“Why,  of  course,”  answered  Zack;  “  where  else  would 
he  be  at  this  time  of  night?” 

There  were  two  cloaked  strangers.  Zack  saw  a  strange 
smile  pass  between  them. 

“  There  is  some  mystery  here,”  said  the  stranger,  indi¬ 
cating  the  carriage. 

“Not  that  I  know  of,”  answered  Zack,  tartly. 

“  Perhaps  it  is  the  custom  of  the  country  then  to  have  a 
carriage  standing  at  a  gentleman’s  gate,  ready  for  use, 
after  midnight,  eh?” 

“I reckon  my  master  knows  his  own  business,”  retorted 
Zack. 

Again  he  noticed  tbe  same  strange  smile  pass  between 

tbe  strangers. 


160 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“  Mr.  Ulvesford  anticipates  a  trip  abroad?”  dsked  one  of 
them  interrogatively. 

“  I  say  it’s  none  of  your  affairs,”  said  Zack,  irascibly; 
“if  anybody  asks  you,  just  you  tell  them  you  don’t 
know.” 

“Not  so  fast,  my  good  man,”  interposed  the  stranger: 
“supposing  Ido  know?” 

“  Eh!”  said  Zack,  surprisedly. 

“  My  business  here  to-night  is  to  tell  your  master  he  need 
not  go.” 

Zack  dropped  the  whip  he  held  in  his  hand  in  utter 

amazement. 

“You  don’t  say  so !”  he  ejaculated. 

“Yes,”  responded  the  stranger;  “you  have  noticed  your 
master  is  greatly  worried  of  late,  have  you  not?” 

“Oh,  Lord  bless  you,  yes,  sir;  he’s  clean  broke  up.” 

“Exactly,”  chuckled  the  man  softly,  rubbing  the  palms 
of  his  hands  together ;  “I  have  come  to  lift  that  trouble 
from  your  master’s  mind,  my  good  man.  I  want  you  to 
lead  the  way  to  where  your  master  is  waiting;  if  you 
please;  my  friend  and  I  will  follow.” 

“I  will  go  and  announce  you  first.” 

“Quite  unnecessary;  it  will  be  all  right,  my  good  man, 
your  master  is  expecting  us;  time  is  valuable.” 

Still  Zack  was  not  wholly  satisfied ;  he  had  strange  mis¬ 
givings.  No  thought  of  the  terrible  consequences  came  to 
faithful  old  Zack  as  he  answered,  bowing  low  before 
them : 

‘ 4  If  that  is  the  case,  gentlemen,  I  will  conduct  you  to 
him  at  once.” 

He  led  the  way  down  the  long  graveled  walks  and 
through  the  dim,  wide  corridors,  their  footfalls  making  no 
sound  on  the  velvet  carpet. 

They  reached  the  library  door.  Zack  threw  it  open  wido 
with  a  low  bow. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford,  his  traveling  duster  and  rug  thrown 
over  his  arm,  his  valise  at  his  feet,  still  leaned  his  head 
upon  his  arm,  against  the  mantel;  he  did  not  even  raise 
his  head  as  the  door  opened. 

“If  you  please,  master.”  said  Zack,  “two  gentle¬ 
men - ” 

“  Never  mind  formalities,  my  good  man,”  interrupted 
the  spokesman  of  the  two,  stepping  forward,  “allow  us  to 
present  ourselves.  ” 

Their  cloaks  slipped  from  their  shoulders, 

“  Swiss  officers  who  bear  the  extradition  papers  wherein 
Ulmont  Ulvesford  was  wanted  in  Savoy  for  the  mupdep  gi 
one  Heath  Hampton  in  the  Alpine  Mountains  l” 


A  FATAL  WOOINGr. 


161 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

LORAIN  E. 

“  I  am  sorry  we  have  interrupted  your  flight  to  climes 
more  cogenial,”  said  the  officer,  stepping  forward;  “we 
must  do  our  duty— you  are  our  prisoner,  sir.” 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  the  heroic  bravery  of  the 
noble  young  heir  clearly  manifest  itself. 

“ Gentlemen,”  he  said  calmly,  “I  am  not  guilty  of  the 
charge  you  bring  against  me ;  ’tis  true,  a  duel  was*  fought 
between  Heath  Hampton  and  myself,  but  I  swear  to  you  I 
left  him  with  but  a  mere  scratch  on  his  right  hand.” 

“  That  is  not  for  us  to  judge,”  answered  the  officers, 
doggedly. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  Mrs. 
Lorrimer,  her  eyes  red  and  swollen  with  weeping,  swiftly 
entered  the  room. 

She  saw  the  officers  in  their  strange  foreign  dress  and 
Ulmont  in  his  traveling  garb  standing  between  them. 

“Ulmont,”  she  whispered,  pointing  to  the  officers, 
“  what  do  they  wish  here?” 

Ulmont  was  frightened  at  the  terrible  calmness  of  her 
voice. 

“  What  do  they  wish?  answer  me,”  she  commanded. 

Slowly  the  officer  stepped  forward. 

“  He  is  wanted  in  Switzerland:  madam;  we  are  come  to 
escort  him  thither.” 

They  all  read  the  terrible  question  in  her  eyes,  and  they 
pitied  the  proud,  white-haired  lady  before  them,  as  they 
continued  m  a  low  voice : 

“  For  the  murder  of  one  Heath  Hampton  in  a  duel.” 

“  My  Gfod  1”  cried  the  mother,  the  tears  rolling  down  her 
furrowed  cheeks;  “and  in  the  room  above  his  wife,  my 
only  child,  lies  dying!  Oh,  Ulmont!”  she  wailed,  “  tell  me 
this  new  sorrow  is  not  true ;  I  cannot  bear  much  more ;  my 
cup  of  grief  is  already  full.” 

No  word  issued  from  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  white,  set  lips. 

“Come,  sir,”  said  the  officers  hurriedly,  “we  must  be 
off.” 

“  Gfentlemen,”  she  whispered,  stepping  nearer  them,  “  in 
yonder  room  his  young  wife  lies  ill — I  say  she  is  dying — 
he  must  come  to  her  at  once.  She  will  not  die  if  she  but 
looks  upon  his  face  before  it  is  too  late.” 

“No,”  said  the  officers,  sternly,  “we  are  sorry  to  dis¬ 
oblige  you,  madam,  but  delays  are  dangerous;  we  must  re¬ 
fuse  you.” 

“If  you  are  human,”  she  cried,  “listen  to  me;  he  must 
see  her.  She  has  called  for  long  hours  upon  his  name,  yet 


168 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


he  came  not ;  she  has  worked  herself  up  into  a  high  fever 
— if  she  looks  upon  his  face  and  rests  her  golden  head  upon 
his  breast,  she  will  drop  into  peaceful  slumber  like  a  little 
child ;  if  he  comes  not  the  fire  of  her  weary  watching  must 
soon  consume  her ;  for  the  sake  of  your  own  wives,  mothers, 
and  daughters,  grant  my  prayer.” 

Something  very  like  a  tear  glistened  in  both  officers’ 
eyes. 

“See,  the  morning  is  breaking  swiftly — we  must  be  far 
from  here  ere  the  sun  lias  risen ;  still  we  cannot  refuse  the 
young  gentleman  a  few  moments — in  our  presence— with 
his  wife.  Lead  the  way,  madam.” 

Silently  the  officers  stationed  themselves  unobserved  be¬ 
hind  the  hanging  draperies,  while  Ulmont,  followed  by  the 
sorrowing  mother,  quickly  approached  the  couch  upon 
which  Loraine  reclined. 

They  heard  a  glad  cry:  “Ulmont,  my  darling,”  and  two 
white  arms  were  flung  round  Ulmont’s  neck. 

“  What  have  I  done  that  has  displeased  you,  dear?” 
whispered  Loraine;  “you  could  not  have  stayed  away  from 
me  so  cruelly  if  it  were  not  so.  Why  did  you  not  come 
hours  ago,  love?” 

Ulmont’s  heart  was  full ;  he  only  shook  his  head,  clasp¬ 
ing  the  lovely  form  he  was  so  soon  to  leave  madly  to  his 
wildly  beating  heart;  in  that  moment  he  quite  forgot  she 
was  not  his  wife. 

“I  have  had  such  horrid  dreams,  love,”  she  sighed, 
“but  they  are  all  gone  now  that  I  have  you  with  me 
again.” 

“  You  would  not  like  to  lose  me,  Loraine?”  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  terribly  calm. 

The  clasp  of  the  white  arms  tightened  about  his  neck. 

“Do  not  say  such  frightful  words,  Ulmont.  I  cannot 
bear  such  thoughts,  dear;  you  most  not  try  my  heart  so 
cruelly.” 

Ulmont  could  scarcely  repress  a  groan  that  rose  to  his 
lips. 

“I  want  you  to  clasp  your  arms  closely  about  me,  Ul¬ 
mont,”  she  said,  with  a  smile  on  her  innocent  face,  “and 
tell  me  how  truly  you  love  me.  I  want  you  to  whisper:  4 1 
love  you  dearly,  my  wife.’  ” 

Ulmont’s  heart  was  nearly  broken;  he  was  but  human, 
and  his  suffering  was  growing  beyond  human  endurance, 
as  he  whispered  every  tender  word  of  his  pent-up  love, 
clasping  her  madly  to  his  breast,  knowing  it  was  for  the 
last  time  while  they  both  lived. 

“Thank  you,  dear,”  she  said,  “if  you  had  come  to  me 
long  hours  ago  it  might  have  been  different.  I  feel,  Ul- 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


163 


mont,  as  if  I  were  slowly  drifting  away  from  you;  ere  the 
sun  rises  in  the  eastern  sky  you  may  have  no  Loraine.” 

A  gradual  whiteness  had  stolen  over  the  beautiful  flower- 
like  fare,  whose  life  was  like  a  sensitive  plant;  the  first 
chilling  blight  that  had  come  upon  her,  had  struck  like  a 
keen  b!a-t  to  her  heart. 

“You  see,  Ulmont,”  she  smiled,  “I  could  not  endure 
even  a  few  brief  hours  out  of  your  presence.” 

The  fountain  of  the  mother’s  tears  was  dry. 

Ulmont  Ulvesford,  strong  man  though  he  was,  flung  him¬ 
self  on  his  knees  beside  the  couch  and  wept  like  a  child. 

When  the  doctor  had  been  called,  he  said : 

“If  there  is  one  power  above  all  others  that  can  save  her, 
it  is  her  husband’s  presence;  if  that  fails  her  she  is  lost  to 
us.” 

“Ulmont,”  she  whispered,  “such  long,  dark  shadows 
seem  stealing  around  me ;  clasp  my  hands  tightly  or  I  may 
slip  from  your  grasp.” 

Suddenly  the  blue  eyes  flashed  brightly  open,  gazing 
around  upon  the  little  group. 

“Where  is  Izetta,”  she  asked,  softly;  “that  she  is  not 
here?” 

Mother  and  husband’s  eyes  met  in  a  horrified  glance. 

“  Tell  Izetta  I  want  her  here  at  once,”  she  said,  with 
sudden  energy. 

How  could  they  answer  her? 

“Mother,”  she  said,  “you  will  bring  Izetta  to  me;  she 
can  sooth  me  with  her  sweet,  sad  voice,  like  tolling  bells. 
Bring  her  here;  do  not  refuse  me,  mother.” 

Again  that  agonized  gaze  passed  between  Ulmont  and 
Loraine’s  mother. 

“Do  not  refuse  her,”  whispered  the  doctor,  “if  it  be 
possible;  her  very  life  hangs  on  the  fulfillment  of  her 
wishes.” 

Slowly  the  mother  turned  and  quitted  the  room. 

An  hour  afterward  a  light,  swift  step  was  heard  in  the 
corridor,  and  Izetta,  quite  alone,  entered  the  room.  A 
beautiful  smile  flitted  around  the  sweet  mouth  of  the 
golden-haired  girl  lying  against  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s  shoul¬ 
der. 

“  I  knew  you  would  come  to  me,  Izetta,”  she  said,  hold¬ 
ing*  out  her  white  hands  to  her;  “  come  nearer,”  she  whisp¬ 
ered,  “  I  can  hardly  see  your  face.” 

Again,  with  averted  faces,  the  tortured  young  wife  and 
husband  met,  bending  over  the  fair  golden-haired  girl  be¬ 
tween  them. 

The  officers,  screened  by  the  silken  curtains,  turned 
away  their  heads ;  they  could  not  break  in  upon  so  solemn 
a  scene. 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


The  gray  clouds  broke  in  the  sky,  the  slanting  rays  of 
the  morning  sunshine  bathed  in  a  flood  of  crimson  and 
gold  the  stony,  agonized  face  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford  and  the 
unearthly  beauty  of  the  pallid  face  against  his  breast,  and 
fell  on  the  beautiful,  dark,  glossy  head  of  Izetta  kneeling 
by  the  couch,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillow,  the  white- 
haired  mother  watching  the  face  of  her  only  child  in  an 
agony  too  deep  for  words. 

Slowly  Loraine’s  lips  moved. 

“Ulmont,”  she  said,  “hold  me  closer.” 

The  strong  arms  tightened  about  her. 

“Izetta,  are  you  here?” 

The  pressure  of  Izetta’s  hand  reassured  her. 

“I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  Ulmont,  and  of  you, 
Izetta,  a  last  request.  I  am  dying,  love,  don’t  weep  so. 
God  has  called  me ;  if,  after  I  am  gone,  Ulmont,  dear,  you 
can  love  Izetta  for  my  sake,  promise  me,  she  and  mother 
shall  hold  the  place  I  am  leaving  vacant  in  your  heart.” 

A  terrible  groan  escaped  Ulmont’s  lips,  wrung  from  the 
very  depths  of  his  tortured  soul  by  the  innocent  words  of 
hapless  Loraine. 

“  Promise  me,  Ulmont,”  she  whispered. 

Izetta  turned  her  quivering  face  away,  and  the  mother 
hurriedly  quit  the  room;  she  could  not  endure  the  cruel  stab 
each  word  had  cost  her. 

“I  love  you  both,”  whispered  Loraine;  “promise  me, 
Ulmont,  if  another  is  ever  brought  to  this  dear  old  home  I 
have  loved  so  well,  ’twill  be  Izetta;  I  love  her  next  to  you 
and  mother.” 

Slowly  Loraine  clasped  their  hands  together,  the  hand 
of  Ulmont  and  Izetta,  holding  them  clasped  tightly  within 
her  own. 

“Promise,”  she  whispered,  faintly. 

For  one  brief  instant  Ulmont  raised  his  troubled  head 
and  gazed  upon  Izetta’s  face;  deep  sobs  convulsed  his 
frame. 

“  I  promise,  dear,”  he  whispered,  sorely  grieved, 

Loraine's  hands  still  clasped  theirs,  even  while  the 
shadow  of  death  crept  over  her. 

“It  is  hard  to  die  so  young,  Ulmont,  dear,”  she  signed. 
“When  they  ask  you  how  I  lived  and  why  I  died  so  young, 
tell  them  my  life  was  like  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers — 
short  but  very  sweet. 

“No  sorrow  ever  came  to  me;  it  is  hard  to  die  so  young 
and  leave  you,  Ulmont,  dear,  but  I  whisper  to  my  God, 
‘  Tliou  knowest.’  ”  ^ 

“You  will  love  Izetta’s  little  child,”  she  whispered,  “and 
remember,  when  you  speak  his  name,  it  was  your  lost  Lo* 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  165 

raine  who  gave  it  him ;  because  it  was  my  husband’s  name 
I  loved  its  melodious  music.” 

Ulmont  bowed  his  head  and  wept. 

“Ulmont,  love — mother,”  these  were  the  last  words 
Loraine  Ulvesford  ever  uttered;  the  white  hands  that 
clasped  those  two  so  closely  relaxed  their  hold. 

In  all  the  glow  of  her  fair,  young  beauty,  she  was  dead. 

There  had  been  no  pain ;  she  had  died  like  the  blossoms, 
scarcely  without  warning. 

And  the  golden  sunlight  drifting  in  through  the  half- 
closed  windows,  fell  upon  Loraine’s  bright,  waving  hair, 
lighting  a  golden  halo  round  it  like  a  crown — such  a  crown 
as  angels  wear  in  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

LONG  YEARS— PERHAPS  FOREVER. 

The  officers  stepped  forth  Trom  their  concealment;  it 
was  the  hardest  duty  they  had  ever  performed  to  unclasp 
Ulmont’s  arms  from  the  beautiful,  waxen  form. 

“  I  cannot  go  yet,”  he  gasped. 

They  pointed  to  the  white,  smiling,  peaceful  face. 

“  See,  it  is  all  over,”  they  said:  “you  must  come.” 

They  unclasp  his  arms,  and  lay  all  that  was  mortal  of 
sweet  Loraine  1  ack  on  the  pillow. 

“I  will  give  my  heritage,”  he  cried,  “if  I  may  stay  un¬ 
til  the  last  sad  rites  are  over.” 

They  shook  their  heads;  stern  duty  called  them. 

“No,  not  another  hour,”  they  said. 

“Izetta,”  said  U.lmont,  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  vol¬ 
untarily  addressed  her,  as  they  still  stood  with  averted* 
faces  at  Loraine’s  bedside;  “lam  forced  from  Loraine’s 
grave  by  the  stern  decree  of  the  law.  Nearly  a  year  ago 
in  Switzerland  I  fought  a  duel.  I  never  dreamed  I  had 
struck  my  adversary  fatally  I  saw  but  a  slight  wound  on 
his  right  hand.  They  tell  me  he  is  dead,  and  I  am  accused 
of — his  murder.” 

He  held  up  his  hand  as  she  was  about  to  speak. 

“It  was  for  the  honor  of  my  name,”  he  said,  “morel 
cannot  tell  you.  I  shall  sign  my  entire  estate  over  to  you 
before  I  leave  America.  I  shall  pay  tor  my  folly  with  my 
life.  In  the  after  years,  when  you  tell  our  boy  of  his  un¬ 
happy  father,  tell  him,  God  knows  I  never  intended  injur¬ 
ing  his  innocent  mother;  tell  him  that  Izetta,  and  say  a 
web  of  fate  wove  me  in  its  meshes,  from  which  my  death 
alone  can  extricate  me;  one  thing  more,  Izetta;  ’twould 
grieve  me  to  know  that  the  sad  story  of  Loraine,  in  after 
time,  would  be  given  to  the  world,  Our  boy  ^hall  inherit 
hut,  Ivetta,  m  you  value  poor  Loraine’s  memory,  l 


166^ 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


ask  you  to  keep  tlie  terrible  tragedy  of  her  young,  guileless 
life,  which  she  never  knew  herself,  forever  locked  in  your 
own  breast.  Forgive  me,  Izetta,  for  "the  past — I  ask  it  for 
Loraine’s  sake  and  little  Ulmont’s.” 

Izetta  held  out  her  hands  for  answer,  she  could  not 
speak,  so  great  was  her  emotion. 

“  Come,  sir,”  urged  the  officers,  “  you  must  come.” 

“One  word  more.  Always  remember,  Izetta — I  say  it 
in  the  solemn  presence  of  Loraine — my  sword  but  barely 
touched  Heath  Hampton’s  hand  nine  months  ago.  I  am 
not  his  murderer !” 

“Did  you  say  he  is  accused  of  the  murder  of  Heath 
Hampton  in  Switzerland,  nine  months  ago?”  cried  Izetta, 
springing  eagerly  toward  the  officers.  “  Then  it  is  false — 
all  false,  I  say.  I  saw  Heath  Hampton,  alive  and  well,  but 
four  months  since ;  there  was  a  deep  scar  on  his  hand,  but 
otherwise  he  was  uninjured,”  she  cried,  vehemently. 

There  was  something  in  the  commanding  tone  of  this 
beautiful  girl  that  awed  them. 

The  officers  gazed  at  her  in  dismay;  it  had  been  proven 
beyond  a  doubt  that  he  lay  crushed  into  an  unrecognizable 
mass  at  the  foot  of  the  Alpine  Mountains.  She  was  surely 
mad. 

“  It  is  as  true  as  Heaven,”  cried  Izetta,  solemnly. 

At  that  moment  they  observed  a  throng  of  people  gather¬ 
ing  on  the  river  bank  which  skirted  Ulvesford  Park.  Both 
officers  could  not  leave  their  prisoner,  so  one  hurried  forth 
to  learn  the  cause  of  the  disturbance ;  the  other  stood  guard 
with  Ulmont  at  the  window. 

The  throng  made  way  for  the  strange  officer  in  the 
foreign  dress. 

“  What  is  this?”  he  asked  of  them. 

They  pointed  to  two  men  who  lay  tightly  clasped  in  each 
other’s  arms — a  box  of  gold  clutched  between  them,  washed 
up  by  the  tide.  There  was  a  sudden  commotion  among  the 
crowd. 

“  Step  back!”  they  cried;  “  make  way  for  the  mother  of 
Heath  Hampton,”  as,  with  slow,  feeble  steps  she  advanced 
to  the  spot. 

“  This  is  the  end  of  all  my  hopes.  “  Oh,  my  sons!”  she 
cried,  “my  sons!” 

Those  who  had  known  those  two  in  life,  looked  upon  her 
pi  wonder,  but  she  did  not  heed  them. 

“Yes,  they  are  both  my  sons,”  she  cried.  “I  despised 
the  one  for  his  deformity,  and  loved  the  other  for  his 
beauty.  I  abandoned  the  one  in  his  infancy  that  the  other 
might  inherit  all.  My  sin  has  recoiled  upon  my  own 
bead.” 

She  clasped  both  damp  forms  to  her  heart,  pitting  back 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


167 


the  clustering  hair  from  their  foreheads;  then  her  head  fell 
on  her  breast — she  had  followed  her  two  sons  through  the 
dark,  shadowy  valley  of  death. 

Someone  suddenly  stepped  forward  and  gazed  a  moment 
at  the  handsome,  cruel,  mocking  face  of  Heath  Hampton. 

“  Ah,  Amy,”  muttered  Abel  Moore,  the  flute-maker,  as 
he  hastily  and  mercifully  threw  a  cloak  about  them,  shut¬ 
ting  them  out  from  the  curious  gaze  of  the  throng,  “at  last 
your  wrongs  are  avenged.” 

No  one  ever  inquired  how  they  had  met,  or  where.  The 
box  with  the  gold  clutched  between  them  told  its  own 
story. 

The  identity  of  Heath  Hampton  was  proven  then  and 
there  beyond  a  doubt.  It  was  a  strange  story  which  the 
brother  officer  related  to  his  companion. 

“  Well,”  replied  the  chief,  “  it  seems  then  as  if  the  party 
came  to  his  death  months  later  by  drowning,  not  by  the 
hand  of  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  on  Swiss  soil.” 

He  drew  the  papers  from  his  breast  pocket. 

“  These  are  useless  now,  sir,”  he  said,  handing  them  to 
Ulmont ;  ‘  ‘  we  shall  sail  immediately  on  the  White  Cresson 
without  you.” 

Ulmont  was  so  astounded  at  the  complicating  events 
transpiring  around  him,  that  he  hardly  realized  what  they 
said. 

“We  honorably  discharge  you  from  custody;  our  mis¬ 
sion  is  ended.  We  hope  you  will  pardon  the  cruel  duty  of 
officers  in  thus  intruding  upon  your  sorrowful  privacy.” 

They  held  out  their  hands  to  him.  In  another  moment 
they  were  gone.  Ulmont  could  scarcely  realize  that  he 
was  a  free  man.  He  was  thankful  Loraine  had  never 
known  the  slightest  shadow  of  the  deep  woes  that  had  hung 
over  her. 

He  knelt  at  the  couch  of  Loraine,  his  head  upon  her 
mother’s  shoulder,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

That  was  a  funeral  never  to  be  forgotten.  It  was  a  piti¬ 
ful  sight  to  see  the  same  group  of  sorrowful  maidens  that 
had  held  white  roses  at  her  wedding,  place  snowy  flowers 
on  her  tomb. 

She  was  so  beautiful  even  in  death,  so  fair,  so  young  to 
die. 

Young  girls  looked  upon  her  smiling,  marble  face,  with 
tear-stained  eyes,  while  mothers,  with  a  shudder,  clasped 
their  own  darlings  closer  to  their  breasts. 

For  many  a  long  year  after  they  told  of  the  beautiful, 
golden-haired  young  wife,  who  was  so  young  and  fair  to 
die. 

They  told,  too,  of  the  broken-hearted  husband  who  fol¬ 
lowed  the  sad  procession  to  the  grave  one  bright,  May 


168 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


/ 
i  v 


morning,  and  of  the  white-haired,  feeble  mother  who  had 
lost  her  all,  whose  bitterest  sorrow  had  fallen  upon  her  in 
her  old  age,  and  they  told  of  a  dark-eyed  stranger  who 
wiped  away  that  mother’s  tears  and  comforted  her,  how 
she  held  her  in  her  arms  when  the  world  grew  dark  around 
her,  drew  the  weary,  white  head  upon  her  strong,  young 
breast  and  comforted  her  with  hopeful,  loving  words  that 
brought  tears  to  every  eye. 

Even  strangers  cried : 

“  God  bless  her  for  the  comfort  she  has  brought  this  grief- 
stricken  mother.  ” 

It  was  all  over. 

“Izetta,”  Ulmont  said,  sadly,  “I  am  going  away — going 
abroad  for  the  present.  Ulvesford  Mansion  haunts  me. 
Will  you  stay  here  with  our  child  until  I  return?” 

He  turned  away  abruptly. 

1  ‘  Send  at  once  for  Abel  Moore  and  his  good  old  wife,  that 
you  may  not  live  here  alone,  now  that  Loraine’s  mother 
has  returned  to  Lorrimer  Hall.  Do  not  teach  my  child  to 
think  unkindly  of  me,  Izetta,”  he  added,  holding  out  his 
hands,  “  always  let  him  think  of  me  at  my  best.” 

Silently  Izetta  placed  her  hands  in  his — the  husband  who 
had  been  separated  from  her  by  such  strange  webs  of  cruel 
fate. 

Ulmont  held  them  for  a  moment  only,  dropped  them 
suddenly,  and  was  gone. 

The  same  day  that  fair,  golden-haired  Loraine  was  laid 
to  rest  under  the  drooping  willows  Ulmont  Ulvesford  left 
America,  to  be  gone  long  years — perhaps  forever. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

“my  wife  and  my  child.” 

Two  years  later,  one  beautiful  morning  in  midsummer, 
Izetta  Ross — as  she  was  still  called — stood  at  one  of  the 
lace- draped  windows  of  Ulvesford  Mansion,  gazing  out  into 
the  brilliant  sunshine. 

Fragrant  crimson  roses  climbed  riotously  against  the 
casement,  kissing  Izetta’s  soft  cheeks  and  dark,  glossy  curls 
at  every  breath  of  the  gentle  breeze. 

The  balmy  air  was  redolent  of  the  aroma  of  blossoms, 
while  little  crimson -brea  sted  birds,  swaying  on  the  maple 
boughs  and  on  the  rippling  fountain’s  brim,  were  pouring 
their  very  hearts  out  in  thrilling,  joyous  song. 

It  was  not  of  these  Izetta  was  thinking;  her  large,  dark 
eyes,  fringed  by  their  silken  lashes,  dreamily  sought  the 
distan  hills  j  &er  beautiful,  proud,  sweet  Uni  were  parted 
in  a  smile-, 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  169 

“Ulmont,  my  husband!  Ah,  Ulmont  Ulvesford,  where 
art  thou  now?”  she  murmured,  half  aloud. 

“  Did  ’oo  call,  mamma?”  chirped  a  little  voice,  sweet  as  a 
robin’s,  and  a  wee,  dainty-dimpled  little  darling,  in  white 
lace  and  soft,  pink  ribbons,  bounded  into  her  arms. 

“No,  Ulmont,  my  darling,”  she  answered,  clasping  him 
so  closely  in  her  arms  that  the  roses  she  wore  on  her  breast 
fell  in  a  shower  on  the  child’s  rosy  cheeks;  “mamma  did 
not  call  you;  go  and  play  with  the  butterflies  and  the 
flowers;  mamma  will  watch  you  from  the  window.” 

“  ’Es,  ’oo  did  call  me,”  persisted  the  child,  tossing  his  lit¬ 
tle  curly  head  and  pouting  his  sweet,  red  mouth  that  was 
only  made  for  kisses,  and  opening  wide  a  pair  of  dark,  vel¬ 
vety  eyes;  “  ’oo  said,  ‘  Ulmont,  Uly,  where  is  ’oo  now?’  ” 

Izetta  blushed  rosy  red. 

“I  meant  your  papa,  sweet,”  she  said. 

“The  papa  in ’ee  pic-cer  in ’ee  uzzer  room?”  lisped  the 
child,  “  ’at  makes  ’oo  cry  so  when  ’oo  sees  it?” 

“Yes,  dear,”  said  Izetta,  hesitatingly ;  “you  must  look 
at  that  picture  every  day,  Ulmont,  and  you  must  learn  to 
love  him  very  much.” 

“  Does  ’oo  love  him,  mamma?” 

“  Yes,”  she  answered,  “  very  much.” 

“  Does  ’oo  wish  he  would  ’turn  home,  mamma?” 

“  Oh,  yes,  very  much,  my  pet,”  answered  Izetta,  caress¬ 
ing  the  beautiful  face  raised  to  her  own. 

A  shadow  fell  between  Izetta  and  the  brilliant  sunshine; 
she  wondered  why  her  heart  was  thrilling  with  such  ecsta¬ 
tic  delight. 

f  “Izetta — my  wife!  Ulmont — my  baby!”  cried  a  deep, 
thrilling  voice,  with  the  happiest  cry  that  ever  was  heard. 

The  beautiful,  queenly  girl  turned  her  head,  the  child 
still  clasped  in  her  arms. 

A  tall  manly  form  stood  before  her;  she  glanced  into  the 
eloquent,  pleading  face;  she  heard  the  low,  tremulous 
voice  cry : 

“  I  have  come  to  claim  my  wife  and  my  child!” 

The  strong  arms  were  outstretched  in  another  instant, 
and  Izetta  and  her  child  were  folded  to  Ulmont  Ulvesford’s 
breast. 

He  drew  his  wife  to  a  sofa,  seating  himself  beside  her, 
his  arms  still  encircling  her  slender  waist,  while  little  Ul¬ 
mont,  chirping  like  a  robin  on  his  breast,  was  stealing 
half  of  mamma’s  kisses. 

“Izetta,”  whispered  Ulmont,  raising  the  blushing  face 
of  his  lovely  girl-wife  to  his  own,  and  gazing  down  into  her 
dark  eyes,  “  I  must  whisper  a  secret  to  you,  darling.  I  am 
madly,  passionately  in  love — for  the  first  time — with  my 
own  lovely  wife.  Without  your  love,  Izetta,  the  world 


m 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


would  be  a  blank  to  me ;  forget  the  past ;  we  will  live  only 
in  the  future,  in  which  I  shall  have  but  one  great  aim, 
‘the  hope  of  winning  my  wife’s  love.’  Seel  I  have  little 
TJlmont’s  already.  Will  you  try  to  love  me,  too,  dear,  for 
little  Ulmont’s  sake.” 

Izetta  glanced  shyly  up  into  the  one  noble  face  in  all  the 
wide  world  she  had  loved  so  truly  and  so  well,  as  she 
whispered : 

“You  have  not  to  try  to  win  my  love,  Ulmont,  my  hus¬ 
band  ;  that  you  have  already,  not  for  little  Ulmont’s  sake, 
but  for  your  own  I” 

Ulmont  Ulvesford  kissed  her  rosy  mouth  bashfully, 
joyously,  like  a  lover.  That  was  the  most  supremely 
happy  moment  either  of  them  had  ever  experienced. 
Izetta  knew  she  had  won  her  way  to  her  husband’s  heart 
atlast.  <" 

That  night  there  was  a  quiet  wedding  at  Ulvesford 
Mansion  to  appease  the  curiosity  of  the  outside  world,  who 
never  dreamed  of  the  strange  drama  that  had  been  enact¬ 
ed  by  those  two  lives  so  ruthlessly  torn  asunder  by  the 
band  of  fate. 

* 

Some  five  years  later  the  dancing  summer  sunshine 
fell  across  a  pathway,  powdered  on  either  side  with  jes¬ 
samine  and  sweet  mignonette,  up  which  a  lady  and 
gentleman  walked.  Two  children  gamboled  on  before, 
and  dropped  white  roses,  which  they  carried,  on  a  mossy 
grave. 

“Ulmont,”  called  the  mother,  gently,  “take  the  roses 
from  little  Loraine’s  hands,  and  place  them  with  your 
own.” 

“Let  me  put  my  own  roses  on  the  pretty  lady’s  grave,” 
cried  golden-haired  Lorain  e. 

The  children  knelt  beside  a  grassy  mound,  while  the 
father  and  mother,  with  their  arms  aoout  each  other,  rev¬ 
erentially  bowed  their  heads. 

Beneath  a  drooping  willow,  where  the  whispering  sum¬ 
mer  winds  love  to  linger,  and  the  birds  trill  forth  their 
sweetest  notes,  stands  a  tall,  white,  marble  shaft  pointing 
heavenward,  and  as  the  golden  sunshine  falls  lovingly 
athwart  it  they  read  the  inscription  which  it  bears : 

SACRED 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

LORAINE, 

BELOVED  WIFE  OF 

ULMONT  ULVESFORD, 

Aged  18  Years. 

“Thou  Knowest 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


m 


No  one  but  those  two  standing  there,  and  God,  save  the 
feeble,  white-haired  mother,  who  spent  many  a  lonely  hour 
with  her  face  pressed  close  against  the  cold,  white  marble, 
and  her  arms  twined  around  it,  not  even  she,  who  slept 
beneath  the  daisies,  knew  of  the  great  tragedy  that  had 
spread  its  dark  wings  over  her  bright,  young  life. 

The  careless,  curious  world  never  knew. 

The  secred  of  that  “Fatal  Wooing”  was  buried  with 
her. 

“  Fair  Loraine,”  murmurs  Izetta,  her  gentle  tears  falling 
on  the  daisies,  and  the  soft,  green  grass. 

“  Heaven  knows  I  loved  her  who  slumbers  here  with  a 
love  that  might  have  been  my  doom,”  murmurs  Ulmont; 
“  but  after  all,  Izetta,  when  God  called  her  He  knew  best; 
now  all  the  love  of  my  manhood  is  centered  in  my  second 
love,  and  purified  by  sufferings,  a  love  that  will  last 
through  eternity!” 

Izetta’s  head  droops  upon  Ulmont’s  breast;  their  little 
children,  Ulmont  and  golden-haired  Loraine,  flit  close  to 
their  mother’s  side. 

Izetta  clasps  her  darlings  in  her  arms,  while  Ulmont 
gazes  proudly  on  his  treasures. 

Perhaps  the  father’s  gaze  lingers  longest  on  his  hand¬ 
some,  noble  son,  who  will  one  day  bear  his  name  and 
fortune  proudly. 

The  smiling  heavens  bend  over  them,  the  ripple  of  the 
brooklet  and  the  song  the  birds  sing  to  the  flowers  are  of 
their  wondrous  love. 

No  sound  breaks  upon  the  harmony  of  those  reunited 
lives,  whispering  of  what  might  have  happened  through 
the  youthful  folly  of  that  “  Fatal  Wooing.” 

[the  end.] 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


AFTER  LONG  YEARS. 


A  PORTSMOUTH  STORY. 


By  CLEMENT  MAINLAND. 


PART  I. 


On  a  certain  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of  this  century, 
the  town  of  Portsmouth  was  all  astir.  Men  and  women 
were  standing  in  groups,  talking  and  gesticulating  in  an 
excited  manner;  wagons  and  drays  were  passing  in  long 
lines  to  and  from  the  harbor;  a  sound  of  continuous  labor 
came  borne  upon  the  air.  Something  unusual  had  hap¬ 
pened.  On  the  morning  of  that  very  day  a  rumor  had 
spread  abroad  that  Napoleon  was  preparing  an  armament 
to  invade  England :  a  sufficient  cause  for  such  visible 
anxiety. 

An  order  had  been  given  that  the  great  ships  lying  at 
anchor  in  the  roads  were  to  be  got  ready  and  furnished 
with  all  the  implements  of  war  without  a  moment’s  delay. 
All  the  merchant  sailors  to  be  found  in  or  out  of  the 
town  were  being  seized  by  press-gangs  for  the  service  of 
His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King  George  III. 

Bands  of  blue- jackets  with  an  officer  at  their  head  had 
been  busily  employed  since  morning  searching  all  the 
lodging-houses  and  taverns  throughout  the  town,  and 
nearly  everj^  available  hand  had  been  taken  before  the 
evening.  Numbers  had  also  enlisted  of  their  own  accord, 
persuaded  to  it  by  the  entreaties  and  prayers  of  mothers, 
wives,  and  sisters ;  for  Francophobia  was  the  order  of  the 
day.  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  commonly  knowii  as  “Bony,” 
had  come  upon  the  English  nation  as  a  terrible  nightmare, 
a  fearful  demon  that  had  turned  his  evil  eye  on  Albion’s 
happy  shores;  against  whom  a  nation’s  strength,  and  that 
the  British  nation,  could  scarce  hope  to  contend. 

Over  the  outlying  parts  of  the  town  a  peaceful  stillness 
prevailed,  broken  only  by  a  distant  murmur  of  sound 
borne  thither  on  the  breeze.  Few  people  were  about,  every 


{A  FATAL  WOOING .  173 

one  having  hied  harbor-wards  to  hear  the  latest  reports, 
and  to  watch  the  business  of  preparation. 

Standing  back  from  one  of  the  roads  leading  out  toward 
the  country,  was  a  pretty  white-washed  cottage.  It  had  a 
small  garden  in  front,  blight  with  hollyhocks  and  sun¬ 
flowers,  and  fenced  in  by  green  palings.  Over  the  white 
front  of  the  house  was  carefully-trained  jessamine  and 
climbing  roses. 

In  the  garden  was  a  girl.  She  was  standing  with  one 
hand  resting  on  the  little  green  gate,  looking  with  dreamy 
gray  eyes  toward  the  town,  which  was  bathed  in  the  soft 
crimson  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  A  gentle  breeze  from  the 
sea  played  among  her  fair  hair,  which  scaping  from  under 
her  white  cap,  fell  in  silken  waves  over  her  forehead;  over 
the  cap,  and  concealing  all  except  the  white  frill,  was  a 
straw  bonnet,  with  pale-blue  ribbons  tied  beneath  the  chin. 
Her  dress  was  of  white  muslin,  with  a  pattern  of  pale-yel¬ 
low  flowers,  made  in  the  pretty  short-waisted  style  of  the 
time.  A  pair  of  long  black  mittens  and  a  satchel  com¬ 
pleted  her  dress.  She  was  like  the  original  of  one  of  Mr. 
Boughton’s  pictures.  Thus  she  stood,  lost  in  a  day-dream. 

“  Musing,  Mistress  Margery?”  asked  a  voice  close  to  her. 

She  started  back.  The  speaker  was  a  short,  dark  man  ; 
he  might  have  been  called  handsome  as  far  as  his  actual 
features  went,  but  his  whole  appearance  was  tainted  with 
an  expression  so  sinister  that  his  natural  beauty  lost  all 
charm  and  became  actually  repellant.  He  had  come  silent¬ 
ly  along  the  road  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  in  which 
Margery  had  been  looking. 

“There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  me,  is  there?”  ho 
said,  observing  her  action ;  “  I’m  a  friend,  ain’t  I?” 

“I  suppose  so — I  hope  so,  but  I  don’t  know,”  she  an¬ 
swered,  retreating  a  pace  further. 

“I  don’t  see  what  right  you’ve  got  to  doubt  it.  Any 
friend  of  Carey’s  must  be  your  friend  too,  mustn’t  he,  eh? 
I’m  a  friend  of  Jack  Carey’s,  you  know.” 

“So  you  say,”  Margery  replied,  “and  I  can’t  disbelieve 
you.” 

“  Of  course  not.  Well  you  know,  you  ought  to  behave 
handsome  to  your  friends  now.  You  oughtn’t  to  have  any 
unfriendly  feelings  to  any  one  now,  least  of  all  to  me. 
Why,  you  are  a  lucky  girl.  Going  to  be  married  to-morrow 
to  Jack  Carey,  the  pet  of  the  service,  officers  and  men. 
You  ought  to  thank  your  stars,  or  rather  me,  for  coming 
across  such  a  chap.  He’s  been  doing  splendidly.  Ah,  I 
have  a  piece  of  news  about  him— like  to  hear  it?” 

“Oh,  please  tell  me  anything  about  Jack,  Mr.  Bed- 
bank,”  cried  Margery,  tier  iQQk  brighttftiflg,  rifling 
nearer.  ' 


174 


A  fATAL  WOOING. 


“  Now,  why  can't  you  call  me  Roger,  like  a  sensible  girl, 
and  not  Mr.  Redbank?  It  ain't  friendly  of  you.” 

“Well,  will  you  tell  me,  please — Roger?” 

“Now,  that's  better.  1  do  like  to  hear  you  call  me 
Roger;  you  do  it  so  pretty.  Do  it  again,  will  you?” 

“  Certainly  not,”  replied  Margery,  with  a  red  flush  on 
her  cheek. 

“  Oh,  don’t  if  you  don't  wish  to.  I  only  thought  it  would 
show  you  was  friendly,  that’s  all.  But  I  don't  think  I’ll 
tell  you  the  news.  You  would  much  rather  have  it  from 
his  own  dear  lips,  wouldn't  you,  eh?''  and  Roger  gave  a 
short,  sharp  laugh. 

“No,  no.  Please  tell  me,  Mr. - 1  mean  Roger,”  im¬ 

plored  the  girl. 

“Well,  since  you  ask  me  so  nice,  I  will.  He's  been 
specially  recommended  for  promotion  by  his  superior 
officer,  all  on  account  of  his  admirable  conduct.  There!” 

“Oh,  that  does  make  me  so  happy!  Is  he  promoted 
yet?” 

“No;  he  ain’t  promoted  yet,  nor  likely  to  be  for  some 
time.  You  know,  Margery,  such  a  recommendation  don’t 
necessarily  mean  more  pay.  We  poor  fellows  in  the  ser¬ 
vice  don't  see  too  much  of  ‘  the  ready,’  you  know.”" 

“You  don’t  suppose  I  care  for  that,  does  you?”  said  Mar- 
gerj^.  “If  Jack  is  poor,  I  shall  be  poor  too,  that  is  all.  I 
care  for  nothing  but  him,  and  him  for  himself,  and  not  for 
what  he  is  worth  as  a  commercial  speculation.” 

“  Your  sentiments  does  you  honor,  my  lady,”  remarked 
Roger,  with  a  faintly  perceptible  sneer.  “But,  after  all, 
you  can’t  live  on  love,  you  know.  Money  does  count  for 
something.  It  makes  a  smooth  road  for  love  to  travel  by. 
But  as  you  seem  determined  to  marry  him,”  he  added.  “  it 
ain’t  no  use  saying  anything,  I  suppose. 

“If  marrying  him  meant  ruin  to  myself,  I’d  do  it.” 
Margery  spoke  with  a  determined  voice. 

“Good  again.  But  I  think,  you  know,”  Roger  contin¬ 
ued,  “that  you  don’t  consult  your  own  comfort  much. 
It'll  be  very  hard  for  you  to  have  to  live  alone  on  almost 
nothing,  when  he’s  away  at  sea — very  hard,  indeed.  I 
dare  say  you'll  think  some  day  that  it’s  a  pity  you  didn’t 
have  me  instead  of  him  after  all.” 

“Sir!” 

“Now  don’t  burst  out  like  that;  I  ain’t  saying  nothing. 

Only - look  here.”  Roger  Redbank  unbuttoned  his  coat, 

and  from  the  inside  pocket  drew  out  two  canvas  bags, 
tightly  tied  at  the  mouth. 

“Hark  at  that!”  he  said,  letting  them  swing  lightly 
against  the  palings.  “  Hold  pieces,  every  one  of  ’em  l” 


A  FATAL  WOOING.  tf5 

Margery  drew  back,  with  an  expression  of  anger  on  her 
pale  face. 

“  Do  you  think  to  tempt  me  from  my  love  with  your 
miserly  money-bags?  You  do  not  know  Margery  Seaton 
if  you  think  that.  Put  that  back  again  directly ;  and  never 
speak  to  me  again  like  that.  ” 

“Oh.  I  didn't  mean  anything,  ’  replied  Roger,  replacing 
the  bags.  “I  never  thought  of  tempting  vou,  bless  me! 
I  only  meant  to  show  that  I  might  have  done  something 
toward  making  you  happy,  if  you'd  done  the  same  for  me. 
That  was  all.” 

“You  seem  certain  that  money  is  happiness  to  man. 
Take  care  that  it  is  not  the  opposite  for  you,  and  prove 
your  misery!'5  Margery  walked  toward  the  cottage. 

“Well,  good-night,  Miss  Margery,  as  you  seem  to  be 
tired  of  my  company.  I  want  to  say  something  first, 
though ;  come  here.  ” 

‘‘What  is  it?”  she  asked,  in  a  voice  betraying  no  in¬ 
terest.  *  • 

“  X  was  going  to  advise  you  to  tell  Jack  Carey  to  keep 
clear  of  the  press-gangs  to-night,  because  they'll  be  very 
busy.  That's  all.  Don't  take  my  advice  if  you  don't  like 
it;  only  remember.  I  give  it  to  you  gratis,  just  to  show  I 
leave  friendly -like.” 

“Thank  you  very  much,”  answered  the  girl,  relaxing 
her  former  cold  tone  of  voice.  “  It’s  very  kind  of  you  to 
give  it.  I  shall  certainly  take  it.  Good-night.”  - 

“Good-night,"  said  Roger,  and  turning  away  he  took  a 

path  leading  across  the  downs  toward  the  setting  sun. 

“Very  good,  my  fine  lady.  We'll  see,”  he  muttered  to 

himself  as  he  strode  awav. 

%> 

The  girl  watched  his  retreating  figure  standing  out  clear¬ 
ly  defined  against  the  opal  background  of  the  western  sky, 
then  as  it  disappeared  behind  a  ridge  of  rising  ground,  she 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  turned  once  more  towards 
the  town,  now  scarcely  discernible  in  the  twilight. 

Before  many  minutes  had  elapsed  a  quick  step  was  heard 
coming  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  Mar¬ 
gery  pushed  open  the  little  green  gate  and  stood  in  the 
road  in  an  attitude  of  happy  expectancy.  In  another  min¬ 
ute  the  figure  of  a  man  appeared,  suddenly  taking  form 
out  of  the  grav  of  twilight. 

“Jack!” 

“Margery !” 

“I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  Jack,”  said  Margery,  a a 
he  stooped  to  kiss  her  tenderly.  “  I  have  been  waiting  for 
you,  oh!  such  a  long,  long  while.” 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


m 

p 

“Dear  little  girl  I”  said  Jack,  almost  beneath  his  breath. 
“  But  now  I  am  here  and  have  such  a  piece  of  news  to  tell 
you.  Can  you  guess  what  it  is?” 

“  I  think  I  can.  Roger  Redbank  was  here  just  now  and 
told  me  some  good  news  about  you.  I  expect  it  is  the 
same.” 

“  Roger  Redbank?  How  did  he  know?  And  what  was 
he  doing  here  talking  to  you?” 

“  He  often  comes  and  talks  to  me,”  replied  Margery.  “  I 
wish  he  wouldn’t.  I  don’t  like  him,  and  yet  I  can’t  say 
why.  He  always  speaks  well  of  you,  and  insists  on  the 
fact  of  being  your  best  friend.” 

“  So  he  tells  me,  three  or  four  times  a  day.  I  don’t  care 
to  hear  it  so  often.  Margery,  there  is  something  about  that 
man  that  I,  too,  don’t  like.  Don’t  talk  to  him;  he  means 
no  good.” 

“I  don’t  more  than  I  can  help;  but  if  he  speaks  to  me, 
what  am  I  to  do?” 

“  Answer  him  as  shortly  as  possible,  and  show  him  that 
you  don’t  want  him.  But  let’s  talk  of  something  else;  he 
is  not  a  pleasant  subject.”  Jack  drew  Margery  to  him. 
“Margery,  I  wonder  if  you  are  as  happy  as  1  am  when  I 
think  of  to-morrow.  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  you  will  be  mine — forever.” 

“  Jack.  Jack,  I  pray  Heaven  that  it  may  be  so,  but — oh  ! 
I  don’t  know  why,  I  know  no  reason,  and  yet — I  am  afraid 
when  I  think  of  it.  Do  not  ask  me  the  cause:  I  know  of 
none,  but— I  fear.” 

“  Margery,  you  ought  not  to  fear,”  replied  Jack  in  clear, 
steady  tones.  “We  must  trust  in  God.  He  it  is  who 
guides  us.  How  often  has  He  watched  over  me  in  storm 
and  hurricane,  battle  and  shipwreck!  At  such  times,  when 
each  moment  was  as  my  last,  I  have  known  that  you  were 
praying  for  me,  and  that  He  heard  your  prayer.  Margery, 
you  should  not  fear  now.” 

Margery  gazed  up  at  his  earnest,  trustful  face  when  he 
had  finished  speaking,  her  soft  gray  eyes  bright  with  happy 
tears.  Then — 

“Jack,  I  have  no  fear  now,”  she  said. 

Two  hours  have  passed.  The  tones  of  a  distant  clock 
striking  eleven  float  softly  through  the  night  air.  Jack 
and  Margery  have  been  talking  the  while.  Ask  not  of 
what:  there  are  some  things  “too  sacred  and  too  sweet 
for  words.”  And  now  they  must  part. 

“Margery,”  says  Jack,  softly,  “sing  me  once  again  that 
dear  old  song.  1  love  it  well  for  itself,  and  from  your  lips 
jt  is  for  me  as  a  hymn  from  another  world.” 


A  FATAL  WOOING  177 

Margery  began,  and  her  clear,  sweet  voice  filled  with  soft 
melody  the  breeze. 

“  Blow  softly,  breeze,  across  the  seas, 

Thine  angry  passions  stay; 

And  calm,  O  deep,  thy  wrath  in  sleep — 

My  love  has  gone  away. 

4‘  Blow  freshly,  gales,  and  fill  his  sails 
And  waft  him  o’er  the  main; 

His  ship,  O  wave,  from  danger  save — 

My  love,  come  back  again.” 

The  air  was  such  an  one  as  our  grandfathers  loved; 
simple  and  plaintive,  a  true  melody  with  nothing  that  was 
forced  or  unnatural  in  it.  Margery  ceased. 

“I  shall  never  forget  that  song  till  I  die,”  said  Jack. 
“  When  I  am  away  from  you  on  my  voyages,  it  will  ring 
forever  in  my  heart,  and  X  shall  think  of  the  sweet  voice 
that  sang  it.” 

A  pause  followed.  Then — 

“  Good-bye!” 

“  God  bless  you,  dear.  Good-bye — till  to-morrow.” 

And  Margery  tripped  lightly  into  the  house.  Jack  Carey 
passed  through  the  gate  and  started  at  a  brisk  pace  down 
the  road  toward  Portsmouth.  Soon,  however,  he  slackened 
his  walk,  and  with  eyes  on  the  ground,  moved  on  silently, 
lost  in  happy  meditation  and  oblivious  to  all  around  him. 
In  this  manner  he  neared  the  town.  He  was  passing  some 
broken  ground  a  short  distance  outside,  when  a  sharp 
sound  like  a  whistle  through  the  teeth  caught  his  ear,  then 
close  behind  him  a  whisper,  “  That’s  him,”  then  a  rush  of 
footsteps.  He  turned  sharply  round  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  five  men;  at  some  little  distance  he 
thought  he  discerned  a  sixth  vanishing  in  the  darkness. 

“What  do  you  want?”  he  said. 

Without  making  answer  four  of  the  men  seized  him. 
He  struggled  violently  to  free  himself.  He  was  a  strong 
mam  and  they  had  no  slight  difficulty  in  holding  him. 

“  Let  me  go,”  shouted  Jack,  “  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for 
some  of  you !” 

Then  the  fifth  man,  who  seemed  to  be  in  command, 
cried,  in  clear  tones,  “  In  the  name  of  His  Gracious  Majesty 
King  George !” 

“Ah!  the  press-gang!”  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  He 
ceased  struggling;  then  turning  his  face  to  heaven,  he 
murmured  softly,  “  Thy  will  be  done!” 


PART  II. 

Ten  years  have  passed.  England,  and  indeed  the  whole 
of  Europe,  has  been  freed  of  a  nightmare.  Statesmen 


178 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


breathe  more  freely;  merchants  open  their  coffers,  and 
“cast  their  bread  upon  the  waters;”  soldiers  exhibit  their 
medals  and  their  scars  with  equal  pride ;  sailors  spend  their 
pay  like  millionaires;  the  world  is  light-hearted.  And  why? 
It  is  the  autumn  of  the  year  1815 :  St.  Helena  now  holds 
the  “  Ogre  of ’Corsica.” 

But  this  light-heartedness  is  not  quite  universal ;  there 
are  some  heavy  hearts  throughout  England.  Mothers 
mourn  for  children,  wives  for  husbands,  maids  for  sweet¬ 
hearts. 

In  Portsmouth  town  great  anxiety  prevails;  for  the  lists 
of  killed  and  missing  are  often  found  to  be  not  faultless. 

It  is  a  cold  gusty  day,  and  night  has  already  begun  to 
close  in  before  its  time;  yet  the  quays  are  crowded  with 
men  and  women,  standing  silent  with  anxious  eyes  turned 
seawards.  They  stand  there  seemingly  unconscious  of 
cold  and  damp,  except  that  from  time  to  time  one  walks 
briskly  backward  and  forward,  with  hands  buried  deep 
in  pockets,  stamping  somewhat  heavily  on  the  wet  slip¬ 
pery  stones. 

A  ship  has  come  to  anchor  in  the  roads;  and  they  are 
waiting  for  the  boats  which  are  bringing  off  the  men.  The 
first  one  arrives:  an  eager  rush  is  made  to  the  landing- 
place.  Then  there  is  a  sound  of  heart-felt  welcomes  and 
embraces,  and  man v  a. prayer  of  thanks  rises  to  heaven; 
but  others  turn  back  with  a  cold  chill  in  their  hearts,  and 
stand  and  wait  once  more. 

Two  hours  have  passed  in  this  manner;  the  last  boat  has 
left  the  ship’s  side.  In  it  were  twelve  men ;  all  were  laugh¬ 
ing  and  talking  except  one,  and  he  sat  silent  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  and  scarcely  raised  his  eyes  toward  the  land.  He 
was  a  powerful  man,  of  some  thirty-two  years  of  age.  His 
face  was  handsome  though  weather-beaten,  and  marked 
with  lines  of  care,  and  there  was  a  look  of  sadness  in  his 
keen  gray  eyes.  A  thick  beard  and  mustache  concealed 
his  mouth  and  chin. 

“  Well,  Carey,”  said  one  of  his  companions,  “you  don’t 
seem  to  be  very  happy  to  get  back  to  old  Portsmouth 
again.  What’s  the  matter?” 

“Nothing,  nothing;  only  I  haven’t  seen  the  old  place 
for  ten  years  and  more,  and  it  brings  back  old  recollec¬ 
tions.” 

“Aha!”  replied  another,  laughing,  “I  believe  you’re 
afraid  your  sweetheart  hasn’t  remained  true  for  such  a 
long  time.  You’ve  got  one,  I  suppose?” 

“  I  had  a  sweetheart,  and  she  remained  true  to  me.” 

“Well,  where  is  she  now?” 

“  In  Portsmouth.” 

“  Of  course  we  know  that.  But  in  what  part  is  she?” 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


179 


All  the  rest  of  the  men  were  laughing  at  Carey’s  solem¬ 
nity. 

“In  the  church-yard.”  he  answered. 

The  smile  faded  from  their  faces.  They  were  silent  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  steady  plash 
of  the  oars,  as  the  boat  sped  landwards.  Then  the  con¬ 
versation  began  again,  but  it  was  of  other  things.  The 
honest,  open-hearted  fellows  all  felt  for  Jack  Carey,  and 
would  not  have  grieved  him  for  the  world. 

The  boat  reached  the  landing-place.  The  men  sprang 
ashore  nimbly,  and  each  in  turn  was  seized  by  eager  hands, 
and  submitted  with  good  grace  to  the  broadside  of  kisses 
he  received  from  the  women,  and  the  mutilation  his  fin¬ 
gers  underwent  from  the  men. 

Carey  landed  last ;  but  there  was  none  to  welcome  him. 
Some  of  his  companions  saw  this,  and  in  the  fullness  of 
their  hearts  tried  to  persuade  him  to  “come  along  home 
with  them.”  But  he  refused  all  on  one  pretext  or  another, 
knowing  well  how  much  happiness  he  would  spoil.  A 
stranger  is  always  de  trop  at  a  family  gathering.  Jack 
Carey  felt  this  very  plainly,  and  knew  that  each  who  asked 
him,  although  the  kindness  he  wished  to  show  was  sincere, 
experienced,  nevertheless,  a  feeling  of  relief  when  the  of¬ 
fered  hospitality  was  refused.  But  he  was  not  the  less 
grateful  to  the  good-hearted  fellows. 

So,  wishing  them  all  good-night,  he  wandered  on  into 
the  town.  The  night  had  set  in  with  a  a  cold  drizzle ;  every¬ 
thing  looked  miserable  and  deserted;  there  were  few 
loiterers  in  the  street  that  night.  Yet  Carey  wandered  on 
with  slow  steps,  lost  in  meditation,  and  heedless  of  the 
cold  and  damp.  Arrived  at  a  lamp  which  blinked  with 
pale,  sickly  flame  at  the  black  night,  he  stopped,  and  draw¬ 
ing  from  his  breast-pocket  a  crumpled  letter,  set  himself  to 
read  it  through  for  the  hundredth  time.  These  were  the 
contents : 

“Dear  Carey: — I  am  sorry  to  have  to  be  the  one  to 
break  to  you  a  sad  bit  of  news;  I  had  rather  any  one  else 
had  got  to  do  it.  It  is  about  Margery  Seaton.  The  poor 
girl  was  heart-broken  when  she  heard  of  your  misfortune 
in  being  seized  by  the  press-gang,  and  began  to  mope  from 
the  day  the  ships  sailed.  She  wasn’t  a  bit  like  ordinary, 
but  went  about  doing  nothing,  as  if  lost  in  a  dream.  This 
went  on  for  some  time,  till  we  got  the  news  of  the  battle 
of  Trafalgar,  and  by  some  mistake  (as  we  learnt  after¬ 
ward)  your  name  appeared  in  the  list  of  killed.  When 
we  broke  the  news  to  her  (for  we  all  believed  it)  she  said 
nothing,  but  went  on  with  her  usual  work. 

“  The  next  morning  her  body  was  taken  up  dead  out  of 
the  harbor.  She  had  drowned  herself.” 


ISO 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“  My  dear  old  friend,  I  wish  there  was  somebody  to  find 
softer  words  in  which  to  wrap  up  such  hard  facts,  but  the 
duty,  has  unfortunately,  fallen  to 

“  Your  Friend, 

“Roger  Redbank.” 

When  he  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  Carey  folded  it 
up  carefully  and  returned  it  to  his  breast-pocket.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  silent  and  motionless,  then,  heaving  a  heavy- 
drawn  sigh,  wandered  on  once  more.  He  cared  not  whither 
his  footsteps  led  him;  his  consciousness  left  their  guidance 
to  the  memory,  which,  like  a  good  pilot,  steered  him  by 
channels  which  it  had  known  years  back,  and  recognized 
now. 

His  thoughts  were  sad,  sad  as  the  heavy,  dank  air  about 
him,  and  broken  by  wild,  fitful  gusts  of  despair;  yet  there 
glimmered  through  the  darkness,  from  time  to  time,  faint 
wavering  lights  of  hope.  He  would  embrace  death  as  a 
welcome  friend;  how  often  had  he  courted  it  openly, 
bravely,  in  the  battle  of  man  with  the  powers  of  man,  and 
more  than  bravely  in  the  battle  of  man  with  the  powers  of 
nature  land  yet  death  came  not.  Self-murder!  No;  that 
was  too  horrible  a  thought.  His  whole  nature  revolted  at 
it.  He  would  trust  himself  to  God’s  mercy,  and  do  His  will; 
He  at  least  would  care  for  him.  A  bright  gleam  this,  flash¬ 
ing  through  the  murky  darkness  of  his  soul.  His  mind  was 
made  up.  He  would  visit  her  grave,  just  once,  and  hold 
commune  with  her  spirit;  for,  surely,  the  spirits  of  the 
dead  linger  in  such  places  as  their  bodies  have  known. 
Then  he  would  find  a  ship,  and  roam  the  “watery  ways,” 
whither  he  knew  not. 

In  the  midst  of  such  thoughts  he  became  conscious,  sud¬ 
denly,  of  things  around  him.  He  was  passing  by  an  eat¬ 
ing-house  that  he  had  known  in  former  years.  Hunger 
told  him  that  it  had  been  unsatisfied  for  many  hours,  and 
that  here  it  desired  to  be  appeased  by  meat  and  drink-offer¬ 
ing.  For  hunger  is  a  stern  god,  powerful  to  kill  if  unpro¬ 
pitiated. 

Carey  pushed  open  the  door  and  passed  in.  The  tables 
were  divided  from  one  another  by  screens,  and  he  selected 
one  which  was  empty,  and  in  a  retired  corner.  He  ordered 
some  food;  he  did  not  care  what— whatever  the  waiter 
chose  to  give  him. 

There  were  many  supping  there,  as  he  judged  by  the 
murmur  of  voices,  and  lie  soon  discovered  that  some  men, 
sailors  by  their  talk,  were  in  the  next  compartment,  and 
with  them  a  woman  who  spoke  but  little.  Her  voice  pro¬ 
duced  in  him  a  strange  thrill ;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had 
heard  an  Englishwoman’s  voice,  and  it  called  up  sad  memo 
ries  to  his  heart. 


A  FATAL  WOOING . 


18$ 

181 


They  were  talking  loudly  enough  for  him  to  catch  what 
they  said,  and  having  nothing  else  to  do,  he  listened.  Lit¬ 
tle  harm,  he  thought,  there  could  be  in  listening;  it  was  a 
public  room,  and  they  would  speak  no  secrets ;  even  if  they 
did,  “dead  men  tell  no  tales,”  and  he  was  dead  to  the 
world. 

“  Strange  thing,  though,”  said  one  of  the  men;  “  I  can’t 
see  how  it  happened.” 

“  Very  simple,”  replied  a  second  voice;  “  I  tell  you,  he 
fell  over.” 

“  Fell  over,  yes,  but  why  didn’t  he  get  into  the  boat 
again?” 

‘  ‘  He  never  appeared  above  the  water  after  he  fell  in. 
Sunk  quite  straig  .t,  just  as  if  you’d  thrown  in  a  lump  of 
lead.  Couldn't  swim,  I  suppose.” 

“Ah,  but  that’s  just  it,”  returned  the  first  speaker;  “I 
knew  him  well — swam  like  a  cork!” 

“Well,  I  was  there,”  said  the  other,  “and  saw  it  all. 
Look  here,  it  was  like  this ;  when  he  got  into  the  boat  to 
come  off  to  the  ship  he  was  drunk,  dead  drunk.” 

“  Yes,  yes,”  broke  in  the  woman’s  voice,  “he  was  when 
I  last  saw  him,  and  said  it  was  all  my  fault.  God  forgive 
him  and  me !” 

“The  wind  was  getting  up  gusty,”  continued  the  man’s 
voice,  “and  the  waves  were  chopping  rather.  Now,  a  man 
must  be  pretty  steady  at  any  time  when  it’s  like  that.  I 
had  just  thrown  the  rope,  and  he  stood  up  in  the  boat  to 
catch  it.  All  of  a  sudden”— here  the  voice  ceased,  but  it 
was  evident  that  the  description  was  being  carried  on  in 
dumb  show,  then — “he  was  gone,”  it  continued.  “We 
waited  till  he  reappeared,  to  hand  him  an  oar,  or  throw  a 
rope.  He  never  did.  They’re  dragging  for  him  now.” 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment ;  then  a  sound  of  woman’s 
sobs  was  heard. 

“  Oh,  if  it  has  been  in  any  way  my  fault,  I  shall  never, 
never  forgive  myself,  nor  will  others  forgive  me.” 

“  Now,  now !  you  mustn’t  take  on  like  that,  you  know,” 
said  one  of  the  men  in  a  gentle  voice.  “You  needn’t 
blame  yourself,  and  I’m  sure  no  one  will  blame  you.  We 
all  of  us  know  how  badly  he  has  treated  you  these  past 
years,  trying  to  break  in  your  will,  and  spreading  stories 
about  you.  And  we  all  honor  you  for  being  true  to  a  man 
who  was  worth  a  thousand  such  as  him.  By  the  way, 
there’s  a  report  going  about,  which  I’d  like  to  tell  you, 
only  I  don’t  dare  in  case  it  shouldn’t  be  true.  It’s  about 
him.” 

“Who?” 

“Jack,”  replied  the  man. 

Carey  listened  more  attentively,  and  he  was  seized  with 


a  fatal  wooing . 


a  strange  trembling,  although  he  knew  that  one  out  of 
every  half-dozen  of  his  shipmates  was  called  Jack. 

“  Did  he  die  bravely  ?”  asked  the  woman. 

“  I  can’t  say  as  he  did,  from  what  I’ve  heard.” 

“  What !  do  they  say  he  died  a  coward?  It’s  a  lie,  a  base 
lie !” 

“  No,  no;  you  mistake  me.  It’s  just  what  I  want  to  ex¬ 
plain.  Some  who’ve  come  home  to-day  were  in  the  battle, 
you  know,  and  they  say - ” 

“What,  what?  quickly!” 

“  That  he  wasn’t  killed.” 

“  Who  says  so?  Who?  Don’t  you  know?  Where  can  I 
find  him?  Tell  me  where  to  find  him  that  I  may  question 
him.  Not  killed!  Not  dead!  Oh,  it  is  too  much!  Stop! 
vnswer  me;  you  are  not  telling  me  a  lie?” 

“  Lie!  do  you  think  I’d  tell  a  lie  to  Margery  Seaton?” 

With  a  wild  bound  Carey  sprang  from  his  seat  and  stood, 
with  face  aghast  and  limbs  trembling,  at  the  entrance  of 
the  next  compartment.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  came 
with  effort. 

“Who  is  called  by  the  name  of  Margery  Seaton?” 

The  woman  crouched  terrified  into  the  corner,  and  with 
lips  white  with  emotion,  said : 

“  I  am  Margery  Seaton.  Who  are  you  that  ask?” 
i  “Jack  Carey!” 

“Ah!” 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  three  days  before  Margery  recovered  conscious¬ 
ness.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  after  a  deep  sleep,  she 
asked  for  Jack.  He  came  to  her.  What  words  passed  be¬ 
tween  them  shall  not  be  written ;  they  are  too  sacred. 

It  was  toward  the  evening  that  one  of  the  men  who  had 
been  with  Margery  came  and  asked  to  see  her.  He  was 
admitted.  When  he  entered  he  said : 

“They  have  found  him.  Roger  Redbank  had  two  heavy 
bags  of  gold  tied  to  his  belt.” 

Carey  was  holding  Margery’s  hand  in  his. 

“God  be  merciful  to  him,”  he  said,  “  as  He  has  been 
merciful  to  us?” 


[the  end.J 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


183 


A  MODERN  CINDERELLA. 


Not  that  she  was  so  scandalously  ill-used  as  the  poor 
little  heroine  of  the  fairy  tale  that  has  delighted  so  many 
generations  in  their  childhood,  but  the  circumstances  were 
not  dissimilar,  as  you  will  see. 

Violet  Effingham  had  lived  a  very  happy,  unfettered 
life  with  her  widowed  father,  the  working  partner  of  a 
prosperous  firm  in  Bircliin  Lane,  till  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  when  Mr.  Effingham  took  to  himself  a  second  wife, 
partly  with  the  idea  that  it  would  be  better  for  his  mother¬ 
less  girl  to  have  some  one  who  could  better  supply  her  lost 
parent’s  place  than  he,  with  his  time  so  busily  employed, 
could  do ;  partly — i  is  to  be  feared — that  he  was  fascinated 
by  the  full-blown  charms  of  the  widow  whom  he  selected 
for  that  purpose,  and  whose  earliest  exercise  of  her  dele¬ 
gated  authority  was  to  find  out  an  eligible  establishment 
for  young  ladies  at  Wimbledon,  to  which,  despite  her 
tears,  Violet  was  forthwith  sent. 

She  had  been  there  a  little  over  four  years,  tolerably  con¬ 
tented  with  her  life,  after  all,  and  always  returning  cheer¬ 
fully  enough  after  her  holidays;  but  on  one  such  occasion 
she  discovered  that  her  stepmother  had  issued  invitations 
for  a  fancy  dress  ball,  and  actually  wanted  to  pack  her  off 
to  school  again  three  days  before  the  time  on  that  account. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  to  be  present  at  the  ball  was 
Violet’s  most  ardent  wish,  and  had  her  father  been  at  home 
there  is  no  doubt  that  a  very  small  amount  of  coaxing  on 
her  part  would  have  assured  the  consummation  of  her 
desire;  but  unfortunately  Mr.  Effingham  was  absent  on 
business  in  the  South  of  France,  and,  plead  as  she  would, 
her  stepmother  was  inexorable. 

Not  indeed  that  that  lady  was  so  remorseless  a  tyrant  as 
the  grim  baroness  of  the  fairy  tale,  but  like  her  she  was 
the  mother  of  two  grown-up  daughters,  so  much  grown 
up,  indeed,  that  they  felt  it  was  high  time  they  had  homes 
of  their  own,  and  like  the  wicked  step-sisters  of  Cinderella 
thought  it  would  be  quite  as  well  to  keep  poor  Violet  in 
the  background  as  long  as  possible — at  any  rate  until  they 
were  settled. 

Hinc  illce  lacrymce  that  flowed  from  Violet’s  rpretty  blue 
eyes  as  she  in  vain  protested  against  her  stepmother's  de¬ 
cree. 


184 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“I  am  turned  sixteen!”  she  cried,  “  and  I  was  put  intd 
long-dresses  last  month,  and  I  am  sure  papa  would  let  me 
if  he  were  here,  and  I  will !” 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  her  fluffy- 
golden  hair  falling  over  her  eyes,  her  cheeks  glowing  a 
mild  pink,  and  her  whole  personnelle  indicative  of  resolve 
and  determination  in  the  extremest  degree. 

Mrs.  Effingham  looked  at  her  in  despair.  The  two  Misses 
Smythson,  Julia  and  Arabella,  sat  as  stiff  and  prim  as  two 
carved  marble  images.  “  Violet’s  temper  ”  was  proverbial 
in  the  family,  and  these  very  proper  and  precisely  behaved 
young  women  were  wont  to  affect  the  greatest  dismay  at 
its  vehement  gusts. 

“  Violet,”  said  Mrs.  Effingham,  solemnly,  “  in  your  dear 
papa’s  absence  it  is  my  duty  to  enforce  his  precepts,  and 
carry  out  his  discipline.  You  are  a  great  deal  too  young 
to  be  introduced  into  society  yet.  You  are  to  go  back  to 
boarding-school  to-morrow.” 

“But!”  cried  Violet,  in  dismay,  “my  holidays  do  not 
expire  until  Wednesday !” 

“That  is  very  true,”  said  Mrs.  Effingham,  compressing 
her  thin  lips  to  a  mere  slit ;  ‘  ‘  consequently,  you  can  see 
how  far  you  have  abridged  your  own  period  of  recreation 
by  your  ungovernable  will.” 

Violet,  forgetting  all  about  the  sixteen  years  and  the  long 
dresses,  burst  into  loud  weeping. 

“  Pray,  Violet,  don’t  be  so  silly,”  said  Julia. 

“One  would  think,”  tartly  spoke  up  Arabella,  “that 
you  were  a  child  of  ten  years  old.  Of  course,  it  is  all  for 
your  own  good - ” 

“  My  own  fiddlesticks !”  irreverently  interrupted  Violet, 
as  she  fled  from  the  apartment  in  floods  of  undignified 


tears. 


But  numbers  are  certain  to  conquer  in  the  long  run :  and 
so  Violet  was  packed  remorselessly  off  to  boarding-school, 
and  Mrs.  Effingham’s  two  girls  returned  to  their  consulta¬ 
tions  with  the  dressmaker. 

Julia,  a  pallid  blonde,  with  cold,  watery -blue  eyes  and 
colorless  flaxen  hair,  was  to  wear  blue  damask,  embroid¬ 
ered  around  the  skirt  in  palm  leaves  of  seed-pearls. 

Arabella,  who  had  a  little  more  bloom,  and  ventured  to 
call  herself  a  brunette,  had  chosen  pink  satin,  with  cloud¬ 
like  draperies  of  black  lace;  while  the  matron  herself,  no 
bad  exemplification  of  the  poet’s  idea  of  ‘  ‘  fat,  fair,  and  for¬ 
ty,”  was  to  wear  ruby  velvet,  richly  trimmed  with 
point-applique  lace,  and  a  diamond  cross,  which,  in  the  ab¬ 
sence  of  her  husband,  she  had  hired  from  an  accommodate 
in  'eweler  for  this  occasion. 


hile  Violet — poor,  heart-broken  child ! — was  sent  ruth- 


A  fatal  WOOING.  im 

lessly  to  Wimbledon,  where  Miss  Gardiner,  the  governess, 
was  telegraphed  to  meet  her. 

But  Miss  Gardiner,  as  it  chanced,  did  not  received  the 
message  in  time,  and  was  not  there ;  and  Mr.  Herbert  Car¬ 
rington  was  there ! 

Violet  knew  him  very  well.  She  had  met  him  several 
times  at  home,  and  Bella  Smythson  had  selected  him  as  the 
special  target  for  the  arrows  of  her  hazel  eyes,  this  season. 

Mr.  Carrington  recognized  Violet  at  once. 

“Miss  Smythson’s  little  sister,  isn’t  it?”  said  he. 

Violet  furtively  whisked  away  her  tears,  and  answered: 

“Yes.” 

“Is  anything  the  matter?”  said  Mr.  Carrington.  “  Can 
I  be  of  service?  Pray  command  me,  if - ” 

“If  you  could  please  take  me  home!”  said  eager  Violet. 
“Very  slyly,  indeed,  mind,  because  I’ve  been  sent  back  to 
boarding-school  before  the  holidays  are  out,  just  because 
Julia  and  Bella  and  mamma  consider  me  too  young  to  be 
at  the  ball  they  are  going  to  give.” 

“  This  is  a  serious  trouble,  indeed,”  said  Mr.  Carrington, 
laughing. 

“  Oh,  it  is,  indeed!”  sighed  Violet.  “  I  am  sixteen,  you 
know,  and  I  should  so  like  to  be  a  young  lady  like  Julia 
and  Bella !  But,  you  see,”  returning  to  the  subject,  “Miss 
Gardiner  is  not  here  to  receive  me,  and  if  you  would 
please  take  me  back  in  your  carriage,  I  could  creep  in 
by  the  area-gate,  and  perhaps — perhaps  I  shall  be  at 
the  ball  after  all -  But,”  her  large  dark  eyes  sud¬ 

denly  blazing  into  indignation,  ‘‘you  are  laughing  at  me!” 

“  Not  laughing  at  you,  Miss  Effingham,”  he  hastened  to 
explain,  “  only  with  you  I” 

“  Miss  Effingham !” 

Violet’s  heart  leaped  at  this  first  delicious  tribute  to  her 
young-ladyhood.  She  felt  a  little  frightened,  though  when, 
Mr.  Carrington,  having  escorted  her  back  to  London  by 
the  first  train,  brought  her  in  a  Hansom  to  Lowndes 
Square. 

“  Leave  me  at  the  corner,  please,”  said  Violet.  “  It 
would  never  do  for  mamma  and  the  girls  to  see  me  in  a 
cab  with  you.  And  Bella  would  be  so  vexed.” 

And  so  the  wild  little  gypsy  stole  in  at  the  area-gate,  and 
bribed  the  cook  with  a  kiss  not  to  betray  her  surreptitious 
re-entrance  into  the  family  circle,  while  Mr.  Carrington 
went  home  to  wonder  what  there  was  so  fascinating  in 
Violet  Effingham’s  round,  dimpled  face  and  liquid,  dark 
eyes. 

“A  child,  indeed !”  he  said  to  himself.  “  She  is  a  woman, 
and  a  dangerously  lovely  woman,  too — only  she  doesn’t 
know  it.  Eyes  like  pools  of  deep  garnet-brown ;  hair  ali 


m 


a  Fatal  WooiM* 


glittering  like  tangles  of  sunshine!  Little  Violet,  if  yoli 
could  only  see  yourself  as  others  see  you*  you  might  be 
tempted  to  be  vain.  I  shall  make  a  point  of  attending 
Mrs.  Effingham’s  ball,  and  if  she  is  not  there  I  shall  cer¬ 
tainly  inquire  for  her.” 

The  pink  satin  dress  vindicated  Mme.  Chaussau’s  fame 
as  an  artistic  dressmaker;  the  blue  damask  came  home  in 
time  to  be  tried  on  and  pronounced  “  perfect,”  on  Satui  day 
night;  and  on  Monday  the  Misses  Smythson  dressed  them¬ 
selves  with  judicious  care,  and  many  lavings  with  rose¬ 
water  and  continuous  applications  of  pearl-cream  and 
blush-pink. 

The  drawing-rooms,  decorated  with  hot-house  flowers, 
and  illuminated,  not  with  vulgar  gas,  but  with  the  white 
luster  of  many  wax  candles  in  myriad-branched  candelabra, 
had  been  personally  inspected  by  Mrs.  Effingham  before 
she  went  to  make  her  toilet,  and  the  little  room  at  the  back, 
where  her  husband  ordinarily  kept  his  boots,  and  over¬ 
coats,  and  pipes,  had  been  transformed  into  a  garlanded 
bower,  where  faint  lights  glowed  through  shades  of  Nile- 
green  glass,  and  the  most  elegant  and  aesthetic  refresh¬ 
ments  were  arranged  in  cloisonnee  enameled  ware,  trays  of 
repoussee  silver,  and  baskets  of  Dresden  china. 

And  just  at  the  time  when  Arabella  was  saying  to  her 
sister,  “How  do  I  look,  dear?”  and  Julia  was  twisting  her¬ 
self  into  the  shape  of  the  letter  S,  to  see  the  back  of  her 
false  puffs  and  plaitings  in  the  mirror,  little  Violet  was  en¬ 
thusiastically  tossing  about  the  contents  of  an  old  cedar 
chest  in  the  lumber-room,  which  contained  the  long-for¬ 
gotten  wardrobe  of  the  first  Mrs.  Effingham. 

“Oh!”  she  cried,  “ this  is  beautiful !”  and  she  unfolded 
a  scented  robe  of  long  China  crape,  crimped  like  the  shingly 
bars  of  the  finest  sea-sand,  and  embroidered  in  fantastic 
figures  of  scarlet  silk.  “  I’ll  wear  this !” 

“  But  it  is  so  odd  and  old  fashioned,  miss,”  said  Louisa, 
the  maid. 

‘  ‘  That  is  the  very  charm  of  it !”  pronounced  Violet. 
“  Oh,  do  make  haste,  Louisa,  with  my  hair !  Are  you  sure 
you  can  do  it  like  the  plate  in  the  fashion-book?” 

Mrs.  Effingham  was  still  arranging  the  folds  of  the  point- 
lace  over  her  shoulders,  when  Julia  rushed  up  stairs. 

“Mamma,  Bella!”  she  cried,  “who  is  the  lady  down¬ 
stairs?” 

“The  lady  down-stairs!”  repeated  both  mother  and 
daughter,  in  amazement. 

“  Receiving  Mr.  Carrington  in  our  drawing-room!”  cried 
breathless  Julia.  “In  the  loveliest  dead-white  dress, 
brocaded  in  scarlet  silk,  and  long,  golden  hair,  braided  with 
antique  Roman  pearls.” 


a  Fatal  vroonra. 


187 


“My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Effingham,  “you  must  be  crazy!” 

And  both  she  and  Arabella  hurried  down-stairs,  just  in 
time  to  see  the  beautiful  young  intruder  courtesy  a  gra¬ 
cious  geeting  to  two  of  the  most  aristocratic  and  exclusive 
of  th e  jeunesse  doree  of  the  world  of  fashion. 

“  Ah !”  said  Violet,  with  the  utmost  self-possession,  “here 
is  mamma  now,  and  my  sisters.  Don’t  move,  Mr.  Carring¬ 
ton,”  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  “I’m  quite  safe  now. 
Mamma  won’t  dare  to  scold  me  before  company.” 

And  Mrs.  Effingham  and  the  Misses  Smythson  were 
forced  to  digest  their  rage  and  mortification  as  best  they 
could. 

For  Violet  outshone  them  as  a  real,  crimson-hearted  rose 
outshiues  the  milliner’s  false  presentiment— as  the  diamond 
outshines  the  wretched  paste  ornament — and  they  knew  it 
but  too  well. 

But  success  excuses  everything,  and  Mrs.  Effingham 
could  not  but  perceive  that  the  quaint  young  beauty,  in  the 
antique  dress,  was  emphatically  a  success. 

“Violet,”  she  cried,  when  she  found  an  opportunity, 
“how  dared  you  play  us  such  a  trick?” 

“I  did  it  for  fun,  mamma,”  said  Violet,  “and  if  you 
scold  me  I  shall  tell  Mr.  Carrington.  It  was  he  that  brought 
me  back  from  Wimbledon,  and  he.  is  my  friend.” 

“  I  never  heard  anything  so  insolent  in  all  my  life, ’’cried 
Arabella,  turning  pale  with  anger. 

“  She  ought  to  be  locked  up  for  a  week  on  bread  and 
water,”  said  Julia,  passionately. 

But  Violet  only  arched  her  brows  and  smiled. 

For  the  child  had  bloomed  out  into  a  woman.  Violet 
had  discovered  her  own  talisman  of  power. 

They  could  none  of  them  ever  scold  or  tyrannize  over 
her  again.  She  had  no  more  fears  of  being  sent  back  to 
boarding-school. 

But  Miss  Arabella  Smythson  could  hardly  conceal  her 
spite  the  next  day  when  Mr.  Carrington  called  and  asked 
for  Violet,  nor  wben  bouquets,  with  cards  attached,  kept 
arriving  for  Violet. 

“  Mamma,”  she  said,  “  what  is  to  be  done?” 

“  Nothing  that  I  can  see,”  said  Mrs.  Effingham,  dryly. 
“  The  child  can’t  help  being  a  beauty,  I  suppose.” 

“She  will  have  to  go  everywhere  with  us  now,”  said 
Julia,  plaintively. 

“  I  tried  my  best  to  keep  her  back,”  sighed  Mrs.  Effing¬ 
ham  ;  “  but  she  has  precipitated  herself  into  society.’’ 

And  pretty  Violet  Effingham  reigned  the  belle  of  the 
season,  and,  in  the  spring,  Mr.  Carrington  asked  her 
father  for  her  hand  in  marriage.  The  honest  man  stared 
in  amazement. 


188 


A  FATAL  WOOING. 


“  I — I  thought  it  was  Arabella  you  fancied  1”  said  he.  “1 
knew  she  liked  you !” 

“I  am  too  much  honored,”  said  Mr.  Carrington,  with¬ 
out  changing  a  feature;  “but  I  have  never  aspired  to  that 
honor.” 

“Oh!”  said  Mr.  Effingham.  “Well,  suit  yourself — suit 
yourself !” 

And  so,  before  she  was  quite  seventeen,  Violet  was  mar¬ 
ried,  and  Arabella  and  Julia  had  the  field  all  to  themselves. 

But  they  were  not  satisfied,  after  all.  Some  people  never 
are  satisfied. 

[THE  END.] 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


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